<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>We Have Lingered In The Chambers Of The Sea by BlossomsintheMist</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25568611">We Have Lingered In The Chambers Of The Sea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist'>BlossomsintheMist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Blood, Blood Kink, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Butt Slapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Chest Slapping, Comfort Food, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Endearments, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Food, Food Issues, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia in subspace, Guilt, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Masochism, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Minor Injuries, Multiple Orgasms, Neck Kissing, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Original Character Death(s), POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pain Kink, Painplay, Pet Names, Post-Coital Cuddling, Praise Kink, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Rimming, Self-Esteem Issues, Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Sleepy Cuddles, Spanking, Stitches, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Subspace, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, hole spanking, mildly sexist insults used toward a monster, monster death, very gentle erotic humiliation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:07:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>67,853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25568611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Geralt falls under a spell that makes him see illusions of everything he wants most, he doesn't take it well, and Jaskier comforts him in the best ways he knows how.  Established relationship.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>284</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>We Have Lingered In The Chambers Of The Sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhd/pseuds/mrhd">mrhd</a> for her birthday - which was forever ago now, sorry this was so late!  Could be seen as set later on in the same universe as my other Witcher fics, or as a stand-alone, if you prefer.  This is also sort of similar to my other Witcher fics, but I hope it's different enough that people still enjoy it, and that it hit all the marks mrhd was hoping for!  I used a lot of the same headcanons and thoughts I reference in my other fics, though.  I'll get back to "Stirring Dull Roots With Spring Rain" soon, I promise!</p><p>Very, very slight allusions are made to Geralt having mildly disordered eating and starving himself at times he doesn't entirely have to, as well as mentions of other similar forms of passive self harm on Geralt's part, so watch out for that.  Geralt also gets frustrated and angry at one point and lashes out at Jaskier a little, going so far as to do violence to inanimate objects, i.e. a bathtub.  He's very contrite, but just be aware (that isn't a healthy way to handle anger at all, of course, especially not in intimate relationships, but Geralt isn't very healthy, is he?).  A lot of this fic has to do with Geralt's various and sundry self-esteem issues.  Geralt also makes a very, very slightly homophobic reference to Jaskier's mannerisms, mostly because he's being gruff and awkward.</p><p>Geralt and Yennefer and Geralt and Jaskier are in a vee shaped triad as of this fic, with Geralt involved with both Yennefer and Jaskier while Yennefer and Jaskier have a semi-vitriolic friendship; all involved are fine with this.  Yennefer doesn't appear in this fic, but she and Geralt's love for her are mentioned a few times nonetheless.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier had begged and cajoled and pleaded until Geralt had agreed to let him come along on his hunt, “as long as you stay well back.”  He had no desire not to stay well back, and in fact before long was slightly regretting his tagging along.  Even if he had picked out his plainest outfit and his worst, oldest pair of boots for the occasion, they’d still never done anything to deserve the reek of the sewer they found themselves in.  He noticed Geralt’s nose wrinkling in disgust as soon as they stepped inside and spared a thought of pure empathy for poor Geralt’s sensitive sense of smell, even as he covered his mouth and nose with his own hand at the stench.  “There’s a siren down <em>here</em>?” he managed, after they’d gone down several passages and turns.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  His hand was hovering near his silver sword, but he hadn’t drawn it yet.  “Poor thing,” he said a moment later.</p><p>Jaskier couldn’t help but agree.  He wouldn’t have wished a lair in sewage on anyone, monster or no monster, especially if one was more accustomed to the open sea.  He was anxious already to get out of the stinking, dripping, dank stone labyrinth of the sewer, and concentrating mostly on where he was putting his feet, and keeping Geralt in sight and not letting his torch go out, for most of their time underground.  Geralt, as always, seemed to have an unerring sense of where he was going, and forged ahead with caution but with no apparent sense of trepidation.</p><p>The whole thing was bloody worth it, though, when they came upon the underground lake.  It shone as if under stars in the night sky, though it was clearly deep within a cavern.  “Oh,” Jaskier felt himself breathe in wonder, tilting his head back to get a good look.</p><p>“Stay back,” Geralt told him, and used one hand to press him back a few more steps, forcing Jaskier to pay attention to his footing instead, until he was right up against the wall of the cave.  He then found Jaskier’s hand, squeezed it over his lute strap, rubbing his thumb tenderly over the knuckles, gave him one more look from under his hair, a look that showed none of the softness Jaskier had come to recognize in him except for in his eyes, then set his jaw and walked to the lake’s edge.</p><p>They must have been there for at least an hour, Geralt occasionally squatting and examining the water for minutes at a time, before anything happened.  Jaskier had sat down on a convenient nearby rock and linked his hands around his knees, idly scanning the area around him for anything interesting.  That was when he first saw it, the glint of something that didn’t look like just wet stone or reflected light.  It looked more like metal, warmer than the cool silver light that infused the entire cavern.  “Ah,” Jaskier said, and scrambled to his feet.  That immediately got Geralt’s attention, and he turned, started back toward him with a knot in his brow and a frown on his lips, his hand on his sword.  “Geralt!” Jaskier said, already starting toward that glint of metal.  “Geralt!”</p><p>He was summarily grabbed by the back of his doublet and yanked back before he got within a foot of it.  “Stay <em>back</em>,” Geralt said with a growl in his voice and then stepped in front of him.</p><p>He got protective at times like this.  Jaskier couldn’t hold it against him, despite what he felt was his own natural curiosity.  He did put his hands on Geralt’s hips and peered around him to see where the glint of metal he’d seen had come from, in his curiosity, earning him a growl from Geralt and a gloved hand covering his on his belt, clenching with gentle firmness.</p><p>“Ah,” Jaskier said, again, when he saw what they were looking at.  There was a body sprawled there.  Longish dark hair, a sword at the belt, and a familiar bit of heraldry on the tunic over the maile.  “Seems that might be the knight we were asked to find, eh?”  A sad end, indeed, to die like this, so far underground, face down in murky water, for a man whose people cared about him, who had just become a grandfather.  Well, a sad end for anyone, truly.  Jaskier’s heart gave a painful squeeze of grief and sympathy, and he heard himself give a shivery sad little sigh despite himself.</p><p>Geralt gave a long, slow sigh himself and squeezed Jaskier’s hand again, then stepped forward, moving away from him and kneeling beside the still form.  He pushed the body onto its back, revealing a firm, noble, middle-aged face, utterly drained of blood and rather blue, slack featured, and a messily slit throat, more ripped open than slit, really.  Jaskier heard himself make a noise of horror, even as Geralt closed the man’s eyes with one steady, gloved hand.  He stayed there, kneeling, for another moment, head bowed, and Jaskier knew at once that this would become another weight on Geralt’s shoulders, another failure he felt was his, even though the man had probably been dead before they’d even come into town.  He reached out and rested his hand on Geralt’s slumped shoulder, patted it over the leather, and when Geralt didn’t flinch away or growl, squeezed at his shoulder, dared to rub his hand up and along the back of his neck under his hair.  Geralt trembled under his touch, then gave another long, low breath, and reached down for the body again, searching it with the quick efficiency that to Jaskier always made it seem oddly respectful of the dead, as if he didn’t want to disturb them longer than he had to.  Geralt unfastened and picked up the brooch the man’s wife had mentioned and rub his thumb over it, clearing away blood and grime.  He put it in his belt pouch without speaking, knotting it carefully closed.  Jaskier felt a lump forming in his throat.  He left his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, wanting very badly to kiss his furrowed brow, or his hair, or say something comforting, but knowing Geralt well enough now to know that this was not the moment.  He wouldn’t accept such things now and would just be angry to be distracted so when on a hunt.</p><p>“Do you think we might bring the body back to the surface?” Jaskier asked hesitantly.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, after a moment.  “Could give it a try.  Depends on how the rest of this goes.”  He stood, pushed Jaskier back gently back behind him again, propelling him backward with one hand on his chest, grabbed his elbow easily when he stumbled, and practically bodily lifted him back until he was standing on one of the flatter rocks toward the back of the cave.  “Be good and wait for me,” he said, firmly.</p><p>Jaskier smiled.  “Makes me sound like a misbehaving puppy,” he said, teasing gently.  “I am your lover, Geralt, not your pet.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, and patted his elbow, then turned away again.  Jaskier settled back onto his rock and sat back to observe the glittering star-like diamond points above the underground lake, humming out a new tune and tapping his thigh as he did, trying to work out an elegy for the poor man they’d come down here to find.  He got a lot of good composing done while waiting for Geralt on his hunts, and surely the man deserved a song to mourn him.  Jaskier would sing it in this town, the next, the one after that, and keep his memory alive.  It was the least he could do.  It was what he could do.</p><p>Geralt had turned back to his contemplation of the water.  Everything was quiet for a while longer, except for Jaskier’s humming to himself.  He didn’t notice at first when the water started to move.  Not until Geralt stood, took a potion from his belt, and swallowed it.  His hands didn’t go to his swords, though, instead he held them out in the universal sign for peace, open and clearly empty-handed.  What the bloody fuck did he think he was doing? Jaskier wondered, getting up to his knees in alarm.</p><p>“Jaskier.”  Geralt’s voice came without him turning around.</p><p>“Yes, my love,” Jaskier said, instantly.</p><p>“You promised me when I gave the order, you would plug your ears.” Geralt’s voice was hard, insistent.  “Do it.  Now.”</p><p>Jaskier didn’t hesitate, took out the two wax plugs Geralt had given him earlier from his purse and jammed them in his ears, clapped his hands over them for good measure.  The first several times Geralt had fought sirens in his company, he’d been too curious about the legendary beauty of their music and hadn’t obeyed Geralt’s commands.  Each time had ended with him coughing and sputtering on the shore like a beached fish, both him and Geralt dripping while Jaskier dribbled sea water from his lips between gut-deep heaves and vomiting and Geralt pounding on his back and swearing at him, usually with one hand still firm at the back of his neck, ready to grab him if the spell came over Jaskier again.  He couldn’t do that to Geralt again, not today.  The witcher was already exhausted from their last two hunts, a bruxa and a nest of necrophages, one on the heels of the other, last they’d been in Vizima.  Geralt had barely been finished with that contract when the rider had come from Gors Velen about the siren, and how many people had already disappeared.  Geralt had insisted on leaving immediately and had been rewarded with naught but another death for all his effort.</p><p>Jaskier had a plan to drag Geralt to Oxenfurt next—perhaps have him deal with a haunting that had begun at the most popular student tavern, last he’d heard, and then stay there a good while to rest and recuperate, while Jaskier took care of earning their coin.  Geralt needed a good rest.  He was drawn thin, lean and lanky rather than bulky and broad as his muscle could get, and maybe few would have seen it, but Jaskier knew Geralt rather better than most, and he could see how grey and drawn and tired he’d begun to look, these last weeks, like his spirit was wearing thin more than his body.  In Oxenfurt, he could feed him sweetmeats and treats, sausage rolls and meat pies and fine ale, cookies and cakes, until Geralt took offense, let him rest his body on a comfortable mattress for a change, the sort that Geralt liked best, not too soft, Geralt would play endless rounds of Gwent, no doubt, and they would make love when Jaskier wasn’t performing.  He had it all worked out.  Geralt needed Jaskier to make sure he rested, took a breath from time to time.  It was one of Jaskier’s most important self-appointed jobs.</p><p>None of that stopped him from watching, though, as the beautiful creature, with the body of a woman, full-breasted and slender, with long bewitching tumbles of shining dark hair and the delicate features of the sweetest and loveliest of maidens, emerged from the water.  He knew from experience of her long tail like a viper or an eel, with its deadly strength, her wings that he could see folded behind her, her sharp fangs, but for now he could see none of that except a leathery hint of the wings folded behind her back, simply pearls dangling from around her fine slender neck and the coquettish smile and large eyes she turned on Geralt, now kneeling by the water’s edge.  Even without being able to hear her, she was breathtaking, and Jaskier felt the spell begin to come over him, pressed both elbows hard into his thighs until it hurt.  Geralt’s mouth was moving.  He was speaking to her.  Jaskier could only read his lips somewhat from this angle.  He asked her where her sisters had gone, if she was all alone, in the Elder Speech.  Goddess, his soft-hearted witcher, hired to kill a siren, wanted to know if she was lonely?  It was times like this that Jaskier felt the pangs of helpless love, of adoration, most keenly, felt the tight twist of love deep with his breast, for there was no one quite like Geralt, was there?  There never could be.</p><p>Jaskier wasn’t about to risk even attempting to read the siren’s lips, just on the off chance she could affect him that way even without his being able to hear her song.  Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on Geralt.  He could see it, though, as the siren looked at him, felt the back of his neck prickle, something in his chest tighten and seize with a wanting ache as her eyes fell on him, just from that much alone.  Geralt shook her head, shifted until he was between the siren’s line of sight and Jaskier.  The witcher held his hand out, clearly talking softly.  Trying to persuade her, if he knew Geralt.  Offering her help.  He watched as Geralt spread his hands wide, pressed one hand to his chest over his medallion.  Jaskier bit his bottom lip, caught up in the tension of the moment even without being able to hear the exchange.</p><p>He liked to think, though, that he had an instinct for this kind of thing—namely, when a performance was going well, or when a technique of persuasion was hitting its mark—and he knew a second before Geralt did, it seemed, that the witcher’s earnest attempts at persuasion had failed.  Geralt was speaking with sober intensity, curling his hands inward as he drew them back in, and then something in the mood, the air shifted, and Jaskier flinched back a moment before he saw Geralt’s eyes go glassy.  The witcher’s jaw softened, his lips parted, and he leaned in.  The siren’s wet hands came up, cradled his face as she spoke softly to him, her thumb leaving a glistening streak of wetness along Geralt’s stubbled cheek, and Geralt swayed where he knelt.  Jaskier knew the softness on his face now, recognized it intimately, in fact.  It was the way Geralt looked, all soft openness and vulnerable need, wanting and real, when he was under Jaskier in bed, and Jaskier had just spent the last hours taking him apart, however he wanted it, with pain or with gentleness or with pleasure, and Geralt’s face would open up, his jaw soften and relax and unclench, his eyes haze over and go wide and dilated and blink rapidly, fluttering, at the light, or the look when Geralt knelt between his legs and put one hand on Jaskier’s thigh above his knee and took a deep breath of him at his groin before he got his mouth on his cock, looking up at him before he did, and Jaskier touched his hair and said Geralt was so good for him, because he always was, and Geralt flinched and his brow tightened and his mouth flattened out and then he took a breath and let the tension out and leaned forward again, resting his head on Jaskier’s thigh, trembling a little under Jaskier’s hands, under his touch.  Jaskier felt a wash of indignant anger go through him, hot and stung and vibrating like a plucked chord, because that was for Geralt to give when he <em>trusted</em>, when he felt <em>safe</em>, that was something Jaskier had worked and worked and worked to earn from him, to coax out of him, to get from him willingly, and this bloody creature, woman, whatever she was, the <em>bitch</em>, couldn’t take it from him without Geralt’s willing permission.  Jaskier wasn’t going to stand for it.</p><p>“Oi, <em>hey</em>!” he shouted, even though he couldn’t hear himself, scrambling to his feet.  “You get your scaly hands off him, fish bitch!  Geralt!  Geralt, love, look at me!”  He took in a deep breath of air and used every technique of projection he’d ever learned to fill up the cavern with his voice, let it go shrill and ringing.  “<em>Geralt!</em>”  He scooped up a rock and threw it at the same moment.</p><p>The siren turned toward him, fangs and claws flashing out and wings snapping out wide behind her, but before Jaskier had time to feel more than the first flash of cold fear, Geralt was up off his knee and his silver sword was in his hands, swinging in a glittering arc.  The siren snapped back, twisting her body in midair, and her claws came down in a harsh swing across Geralt’s chest.  He turned his sword, blocked it, and she took off, her mouth open in what Jaskier was sure was a shriek.  Geralt, holding his sword along his arm, made a sign Jaskier had come to recognize with his other hand, and the rush of force of Aard struck the siren, knocked her out of the sky and back into the water.  <em>Fuck</em>, he saw Geralt’s lips form the word, and the witcher staggered up to his feet with a lurching movement so unlike his usual grace that it sent a cold shiver of fear down along Jaskier’s spine to curl icy fingers in his guts.</p><p>Geralt was shouting something now, in Elder Speech again, it seemed, but whatever he was saying, it did not reach the siren.  Jaskier saw her open her mouth to scream and huddled back down against the stone, covering his ears.  He saw Geralt stagger and go down under the force of it, saw him put a hand down on the stones, panting.  “<em>Geralt!</em>,” he screamed again, feeling it rasp painfully in his throat and knowing he had misused his voice but not caring, and Geralt ducked down and rolled forward just in time, so that the siren’s claws raked over his back and not his face and neck.  Jaskier could see that blood was drawn, but not how badly, as Geralt rolled over onto his back and made another sign.  Fire bloomed out of his hand in a roaring wave.  The siren shrieked in pain so piercingly that Jaskier could hear it even through his ear plugs, and it knocked him flat for a moment.  It knocked Geralt flat on his back, too, and Jaskier flinched as he saw the sirens claws score across Geralt’s leg before he knocked her away with his forearm and brought his silver sword up into her with a snarl Jaskier could imagine even if he couldn’t hear it. The witcher ripped the sword up through her, and Jaskier covered his mouth and eyes with his arm, not wanting to look, covering his mouth against his wrench of nausea at the sight, to continue to block his ears at the same time.</p><p>When he opened them again, the siren was in—yes, that was definitely more than one piece—on the stone floor of the cavern, and Geralt was wearily cleaning his silver sword of her blood.  As Jaskier watched, he stumbled forward, went down to one knee, then his hands and knees, swayed, and then went down altogether.  And hard.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Jaskier thought.</p><p>He ripped the ear plugs out of his ears, shaking his head to rid himself of the strange feeling they left, then threw himself over the rock he was sitting on, the stones littering the cavern, to sprint to Geralt’s side as quickly as he could.</p><p>The witcher was groaning, at least, his head rolling against the damp stone of the cavern floor, his eyes fluttering.  He moaned when Jaskier touched him, hesitantly resting his hand against the curve of his skull, the sweat-damp back of his neck.  His eyes were open, but he looked dazed, even as he rolled his head slackly toward Jaskier.</p><p>This was exactly why Jaskier wanted to come along on hunts.  Well, there was also the pull of adventure, and the details he could put into his songs, make them more exciting, but more than anything there was the worry that Geralt might need him, or at least need <em>someone</em>, out there with him, if he was hurt or ran into some difficulty that just another pair of hands might help to fix.  And, of course, there was always morale, or so Jaskier flattered himself.  When Geralt was hurt, like this, at least he was there, to be of what little use he could.</p><p>“Geralt,” he said in a rush, panting and anxious, “my love.  Can you hear me?  Where are you hurt?”  His hand was moving, instinctively, stroking through Geralt’s hair, along the back of his head.</p><p>“Jask,” Geralt groaned, and it rasped in his throat, lips barely moving.  His eyes fluttered closed, then open again, and he reached out, grasping clumsily, missed Jaskier’s arm before he succeeded in closing his hand against his forearm, clasping it.  He squeezed, and Jaskier swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.  “Safe?”</p><p>Jaskier blinked back tears of fear, of emotion, of aching love.  “Of course,” he said, taking a deep breath, scrubbing one arm over his face, against his mouth.  “Of course, I’m safe.  I’m well.  You did it, love.”</p><p>Geralt sighed, and his mouth turned down in a front, his brow creased, his eyes closed.  “Had to kill her . . . .” he mumbled.  “Shouldn’t.  Shouldn’t’ve given in . . . maybe could have, could have . . .  sloppy.”</p><p>“Shhh,” Jaskier said, throat aching even worse now, his chest knotting with a tight pain.  He caught Geralt’s gloved hand in his, squeezed both his hands around it, chafing his wrist.  “It’s done; that’s what matters.  Come now.  Where did she get you?  How bad is it?  What do you need?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, obscurely, faintly.  His eyes fluttered open again.  “Swallow,” he said, little more than a dry rasp in his throat.</p><p>“Yes, of course,” Jaskier said, digging in the pack at his belt.  He had begun carrying some of Geralt’s most critical healing potions some time ago, despite Geralt’s objections and protestations of their toxicity.  Jaskier knew perfectly well that they were toxic to humans, but that fact was not of much interest to him, for he carried them for Geralt’s sake.  Fancifully, he saw it as something of a token of his love, a sign of his devotion to his witcher, a marker of the man he’d chosen as his own.  He pulled out the flask of fiery orange Swallow and reached down to clasp the back of Geralt’s neck.  “Up you get, my dearest.”</p><p>Geralt made a face, but with Jaskier’s support he lifted himself up onto his elbows, then all fours, his head dangling wearily, bent nearly to the floor, before Jaskier lifted it with his hand, curling his hand against his jaw and supporting the weight of it, and then the witcher sighed and sat back on his heels with Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder.  Jaskier squeezed it there, scanning the blood welling through the gashes through Geralt’s leathers with worry.  He uncorked the flask, feeling the warmth of the potion swirl up and over his fingers, like licking flames, feeling and hearing it bubble, and held it to Geralt’s slack lips, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand to warn him it was coming.  Geralt opened his mouth, drank obediently, his eyes closed.  Jaskier held him there, brought Geralt’s head down with his hand until it rested on his own shoulder, and Geralt let him, hands falling to rest limp against Jaskier’s thighs.</p><p>“Shh, I’ve got you,” Jaskier murmured, unable at times like this, as always, to keep back the babbling words of endearment, of love, turning his head to brush a kiss, just the touch of his dry lips, along Geralt’s mud-streaked temple, even as he watched Geralt’s wounds begin to close, some of the bleeding taper off.  Geralt grunted against his shoulder.  They stayed like that for long moments, while the potion began to work, Geralt’s hands curling loosely into the sides of Jaskier’s doublet and against his belt.  He could tell Geralt was meditating, the way his breath evened out, and kept his hand firm at the back of his neck, clasping him there, as he waited for the potion to do its work.  Geralt would let him know when he was ready to move again.  Eventually Jaskier adjusted them to lean their foreheads together, feeling the clammy warmth of Geralt’s dirty skin and taking comfort in the even huffing warmth of Geralt’s breaths over his own lips, stroking both his hands through Geralt’s hair.  The cave was cold and damp, but Geralt’s warmth keep Jaskier more than warm enough that it barely penetrated through his concern, his concentration on the man before him.</p><p>Finally, Geralt gave a low huffing grunt, and his eyes fluttered back open.  Jaskier smiled at him, pressed a kiss against his forehead and received a grunt and another huff from low in Geralt’s chest for it.  “Back with us, darling?” Jaskier asked him.</p><p>Geralt grunted again.  His eyes fluttered, and he looked around.  Jaskier followed his gaze and leaned over and took up his sword, dragging it toward them.  The damn thing was heavy.</p><p>Geralt gave another grunt, apparently of approval, and his hand came up, damp leather glove pressing to the skin of Jaskier’s jaw as he cupped his cheek and squeezed, then pulled the sword onto his knees.  Jaskier wiped it down with one arm, pushing Geralt’s hands away, then lifted it with a grunt of effort of his own, slid it back into the sheath over Geralt’s shoulder.</p><p>Geralt grunted again, as if in thanks, and leaned forward, pressed his damp, clammy, stubbled cheek against Jaskier’s, lips against his temple.  Jaskier felt himself flush hot and no doubt pink, looked down to hide his flustered smile, the way he always did when Geralt unexpectedly reached out with affection, especially at a time like this.  He reached out, gripped at Geralt’s elbows.  “All right, big fellow,” he said.  “Ready to get up?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted in what was obviously assent.  He lifted his arms like they weighed as much as granite boulders, pushed his hands down on Jaskier’s shoulders, and used him as a prop to lever himself up to his feet.  Jaskier noticed his leanness again with some concern, the lack of a portion of his usual crushing weight as he clambered up to his feet and stood there, swaying.  Potion or no potion, Geralt’s face was gray and looked slick with sweat.  He wobbled dangerously on his feet, and Jaskier could see blood welling up out of his thigh and spilling down his leg.  He hissed in displeasure, pulled his lute off his back, stripped out of his doublet, and pulled his shirt off, wrapping it quickly and tightly around the place where Geralt’s leathers had been obviously sliced raggedly open and the wound beneath, wrapping it around once, twice, and tying it tightly, before he pulled his own doublet back on and laced it up, slid his lute back over his head, then scrambled to his own feet and reached for Geralt.</p><p>Geralt, wobbling as he was, grunted with displeasure, at least until Jaskier was standing there, right up against him, and slid his hands around his back, pressing both hands in against the small of it, right beside his spine, where he was fairly certain Geralt wasn’t injured.  Then Geralt sighed and wrapped his arms around Jaskier in return, pressed his face into his shoulder.  He was still trembling.  Jaskier kissed his temple again, his ear.  Geralt was taking deep, deep breaths, shuddering all the way down his back with each one.  Jaskier was happy to stand there, squeezing him tightly between his arms, just holding him for a long moment, but then he turned his head, pressed his lips to his ear.  “Sweetling, you’re bleeding,” he said, gently urging.  “Come on, let’s get back so that I can look after you properly.”</p><p>Geralt grunted.  “Need . . . proof,” he finally said, after a moment.</p><p>Jaskier looked at the pieces of the siren, queasily, feeling his stomach churn.  “What . . .” he swallowed.  “What kind of proof do you need?”  The thought of cutting off the still human-looking head, fangs and snake-like jaw aside, was an unpleasant one.</p><p>“Teeth,” Geralt grunted.  “Vocal cords.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>ick</em>,” Jaskier said.  “Ew, ew.  Ew.”  His hand went to his throat, rubbed at his own vocal cords in unwilling sympathy.</p><p>Geralt smiled faintly at that, rubbed their noses together, rubbed his cheek against the side of Jaskier’s face, before he rasped in his ear, “I’ll do it, lark.”  He squeezed his hands gently at Jaskier’s hips.  “You’d just make a mess of it.”</p><p>“Hey!” Jaskier said.  “Hey, I—I resent that, Geralt, I—”</p><p>“Did they cover siren anatomy at Oxenfurt, then?” Geralt muttered, mostly under his breath, even as Jaskier slid his arm around his waist, brought the other up over his shoulders, helped him limp his way over to the siren’s corpse, looking away from the thick, black, congealing blood, covering his mouth with his sleeve out of pure disgust and hiding his head in Geralt’s shoulder to look away.  Seeing the dismembered body of what was half an eel or sea monster and partly a nubile young woman was remarkably unpleasant.  Jaskier knelt with Geralt, averting his eyes, as Geralt’s hands worked, as his hand went to the knife he wore at his belt, and some fairly sickening wet, crunching sounds met Jaskier’s ears.  He swallowed, hard.</p><p>“I had a class in natural philosophy,” he said, unsteadily, trying to sound lofty and well-informed.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  He was wrapping something in cloth now, gave Jaskier a glance, and then slid whatever it was into his other belt pouch.  “Need more than a class.”  He sighed, let his head bend forward, slumping down to his chest, and he swayed forward.</p><p>“Nope, nope, nope, none of that, now,” Jaskier said, firmly.  He reached out, got one hand around Geralt’s jaw, brought it around to make Geralt meet his eyes.  He had gone a horrible pasty shade of gray-white, and his eyes were glazed and glassy.  “All right, that’s it,” Jaskier said.  “We’re getting out of here.”  He got to his feet and dragged Geralt with him, even as Geralt swayed and followed him, clumsy and slow but still managing to take his own weight.</p><p>Geralt grunted a protest.  “Body,” he said, after a moment.</p><p>“We’ll have to tell his loved ones,” Jaskier said.  “His people can take care of it.  We’re in no shape to handle body collection right now.”</p><p>Geralt’s frown deepened, his brow knitting tightly, and his jaw set, hard, but he said nothing in response.</p><p>“Shush,” Jaskier told him, despite the lack of a response.  He slid his hand down around Geralt’s waist, took his hand firmly in his, and squeezed, bringing it back to hold it at his hip.  “That’s something to worry about later, love.  He’s dead.  The wait won’t mean anything to him.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, unhappily, but he let Jaskier tug at him and lead him away from the underground lake, the dead knight, and the dead siren.  His steps were already unsteady, but by the time they left the sewers, he was leaning at least half his weight on Jaskier and seemed like a zombie, like he was moving in his sleep.  He might have been half his normal weight, but he was still bloody heavy.  At least his eyes flickered a little as Jaskier more than half dragged him out of the storm drain through which they’d entered, and the cold wind of the night air caught his hair.</p><p>“Contract,” he muttered, swaying where he stood.  “Payment.”</p><p>“Oh, you shush,” Jaskier said.  His wrist was damp and a little sticky with sweat and Geralt’s blood, dripping slowly down his back over his leathers.  “We’re going back to the inn where we took a room and you’re going to take a nice hot bath, and I’m going to look after you.  We can conclude our business with the mayor tomorrow.  That should be soon enough for anyone.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but it was more a contemplative hum than anything, and his eyes slid closed again.</p><p>“Yes, good,” Jaskier said.  “There’s my good fellow, hmm?”  He didn’t really expect a response, but he still kissed Geralt’s temple, his brow, nosed into his hair, then looked around, trying to place where they were.  There—that was the direction back to the city streets, and the inn where they’d taken a room.  He squeezed Geralt’s wrist, then led him in the direction he remembered.</p><p>He hadn’t been wrong, either—there the inn was, on Cormorant Street, just where they’d left it, as Jaskier told Geralt as they came up upon it.  Geralt raised his head, his eyes heavy lidded and hazy, and just gave a muzzy little groan of a sound in response, so Jaskier just squeezed his wrist again and led him back through the alley to the side door they’d left through before.  Geralt hated his weakness to be witnessed by others if he could at all help it, and Jaskier could at least spare him that.  It was their bad luck that Geralt preferred to take rooms on the upper floors if they could and that their room was on the second floor, but at least no one was there to witness their staggering progress up the stairs.  Jaskier was panting, louder than Geralt, by the time they made it to the door of the room and he managed to get Geralt leaning up the wall, keeping one hand on his belly to keep him upright, while he fumbled their key into the lock.  Geralt might have been too thin at the moment, but he was still solid muscle.  It was like lugging a tree trunk about on his back.  Geralt just leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes slipping closed and his breaths coming deep, even but heaving, in his chest.  It seemed to take forever, but once he finally had gotten the door open and grabbed at Geralt’s belt, tugging him forward, then pushed him into the room, it was a great relief to step in behind him and close it behind them.  Jaskier sighed in relief, helping Geralt limp across to the bed and sink down on it, before he slid his lute case off his back and set it carefully on the chair in the room.  He turned to Geralt.</p><p>Geralt had unbuckled his sword belt, let it slide down over his shoulder and down between his legs.  Jaskier reached forward and took that from him, too, gently detaching his hands as he leaned it up against the far wall, by the hearth, then stepped back, between Geralt’s legs.  Geralt didn’t look up, but he did widen the spread of them, giving Jaskier more room.  Jaskier noticed that there was still blood soaking through the bandage around his leg, and winced.  Geralt leaned forward, pressed his face into Jaskier’s chest, breathing reedily and unsteadily, pressed close, then turned his head and rested his cheek there, and Jaskier felt something within him melt helplessly, going liquid.  He lifted his hands, stroked at Geralt’s hair, feeling his warm breath against his skin through his doublet.  He took a breath, then cupped Geralt’s clammy face in his hands, lifted it up until Geralt was looking up at him.  He looked very hazy.  He nodded at Geralt’s thigh.  “That needs clotting, love,” he said, stroking at Geralt’s cheek, rubbing off a smudge of mud.  “And then I’ll go and get you a bath, all right?”</p><p>Geralt blinked up at him, then nodded.  “My bag,” he ground out.  His voice was raspy, all gravel, like he’d swallowed a pouch full of rocks.  Jaskier patted his cheek, stroked his hair back from his face, kissed his brow tenderly, and went to fetch it.</p><p>Geralt blew out a long, slow breath and began to fuss with the bandage around his leg.  He looked up as Jaskier set the bag on the bed beside him and said, “This is your shirt,” somewhat accusingly.</p><p>“And so it is, my love,” Jaskier said, opening the bag and drawing out a piece of linen, which he passed to Geralt.  “Is there a problem with that?”</p><p>Geralt frowned, and his jaw set stubbornly.  “It’s bloodstained now,” he said.  “The fabric’s so fine—a fine weave, embroidered—”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” Jaskier insisted, and when Geralt’s jaw just set even more stubbornly, leaned in, cupped his jaw in his hand, and kissed his nose.  “Love, shh,” he said.  “It’s a shirt.  I have more.  It’s <em>your</em> blood.  I’d rather have your blood in your body than a hundred fine shirts, and that’s the truth of it.”</p><p>“You’ll have to throw it out,” Geralt said, sounding upset.</p><p>“And I don’t give a fig,” Jaskier said, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head at him.  “I’ll rip it up for bandages, perhaps.  Or handkerchiefs.”</p><p>Geralt’s jaw worked, and he huffed out a breath through his nose in disapproval.  He always sounded alarmingly like Roach when he did that.</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier said.  “Look after that wound, all right?  It needs looking to.  If you don’t, you’ll pass out and leave me to do all the work.”  He hated guilting Geralt at times like this, but it worked.  Geralt’s jaw flexed and he nearly flinched, his shoulders hunching, but he did duck his head and go back to work unwrapping the shirt, passing it over to Jaskier with another unhappy, unwilling glance down at it as he did.  Jaskier just took it from him, grimaced at the bloodstains, and tossed it onto the chair.  It had been one of his oldest shirts, anyway—he’d learned long ago not to wear an outfit on a hunt with Geralt unless he was ready to lose it.  Of course, sometimes there were other reasons he wanted to look fine, and so he risked it, but it wasn’t as if it was Geralt’s fault if his clothes got ruined then.  Geralt, for his part, was finally pouring some hideous looking concoction on the wound, then uncorking and drinking another.  Jaskier knew that asking what had been in the things he’d just consumed would only turn his stomach—but he had to admit that seeing the blood clot in the wound on Geralt’s leg and it begin to pull together, instantly, was something incredible to watch.  Jaskier knelt at the witcher’s feet and began tugging off his boots.</p><p>He could tell when the potions had taken effect when Geralt’s clenched fists relaxed, and he sighed, head slumping forward again.  Jaskier pulled off his second boot, picked up each foot at the ankle and checked them for injuries both of them might have missed, just in case, then patted the tops of his feet and straightened, leaning over Geralt to get at the buckles on his armor.  It had taken him some time to learn, but now Jaskier was intimately, instinctively familiar with how Geralt’s armor came off and went on.  He got it off him in no time at all, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and turned him to lie against the bed before he took himself off to see the innkeeper about a bath.  Geralt barely moved, but he did give a whimpering little moan as Jaskier turned to leave the room, his fingers spreading out across the bed as if in search of him.  “Ah, my love,” Jaskier said, that lump bunching in his throat again, chest aching, “I’ll be right back.  Just hold tight.”</p><p>Geralt’s eyes fluttered against the bed, but he looked as if he were too dazed to even hear it, let alone respond.  Jaskier just swallowed, hard, and let himself out of the room.  He’d done his best to flatter and charm the innkeeper and cook when first they’d taken this room, out of a hope that they would offer him the chance to entertain the patrons and make some extra coin, and just in case Jaskier wanted to ask any other favors, for example, in just such an eventuality as this.  Jaskier made a habit of it, charming innkeepers.  So it was the work of a moment, really, to convince this innkeeper to send up a steaming tub of hot water, provide him with an extra flask of vodka, and whip up a posset of steaming milk curdled with ale and sweet wine, honey, ginger and other spices, and eggs.  Extravagant, to be sure, but worth it in Jaskier’s mind.  Geralt needed to eat <em>something</em>, but Jaskier knew from experience that if he gave him anything hearty at this point he’d likely not keep it down.  He had a suspicion that had more to do with Geralt’s emotional state after hunts like this than anything strictly physical.  Not that he would have ever said as much to Geralt.  He thanked the innkeeper with fulsome flattery and over the top praise until the man was actually blushing, gave him a courtly bow, and then hurried back to Geralt, posset in hand.</p><p>Geralt was at least aware enough that he wasn’t just lying in bed staring at the ceiling, which was a state Jaskier had unhappily come back to see him in more than once.  He had stripped down to his smallclothes and was sitting up in bed, frowning at the gashes down his chest, which the potions had already healed into nothing so much as shallow cuts, and he looked up when Jaskier stepped into the room.  There was the briefest flicker of a smile of welcome on his lips when he saw him.  “Jaskier,” he said.</p><p>“The very same,” Jaskier said, sitting beside him on the bed.  He stretched out his free arm and made an expansive ‘come here’ gesture.  Geralt made a face at him, and his shoulders tensed, shifted uncomfortably, but he didn’t resist as Jaskier just leaned over to peer at his back—good, just nasty scratches there, too, nothing that was bleeding heavily—and then wrapped his arm around his bare shoulders, pushed the mug he carried into Geralt’s hand and wrapped his fingers around it.  Geralt made another face at him, a little helplessly, like a kid who didn’t want to eat his dinner, sniffing at it.  “Oh, shhh, you, it will be good,” Jaskier told him.  “Drink up, all right?  While it’s still warm.”  He cuddled closer, stroking the back of Geralt’s neck, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, his temple, the side of his head, his ear, playing gently with his hair while he did.</p><p>Geralt sighed again, but he brought the mug to his lips.  Sure enough, once he’d got the taste of it on his tongue, with the tiny little sips he’d taken, like a cat, he looked at it with a great deal more interest and swallowed the rest of it with a will.</p><p>“See?” Jaskier said.  “I wouldn’t bring you something disgusting, would I?  Well, I might.  But I’d at least warn you first.”</p><p>Geralt sighed, looking at his hands, turning the mug around in them, and around.  “Wasn’t that,” he said, roughly, after a moment.  “Was just . . . mmm.  You . . . know . . . how it gets.”</p><p>He meant he’d been nauseated and not sure he could keep it down, Jaskier knew.  “Well, having something in one’s stomach often settles it,” Jaskier said.  “As you so memorably reminded me after my last hangover.”</p><p>Geralt smiled again, just a little twitch of one side of his mouth, still not meeting Jaskier’s eyes, looking off somewhere into the middle distance.  “And you threw up anyway,” he said.</p><p>“My stomach is a delicate thing,” Jaskier told him with a sniff.</p><p>“You just got completely hammered on bad ale,” Geralt told him, which was completely and entirely true, and also fair.  He swallowed the rest of the posset, and Jaskier reached between his arms and took the empty cup from him, leaned in to kiss his forehead again.</p><p>“Be that as it may,” Jaskier informed him, and Geralt gave him that tiny, tired-looking smile again.  At least this time he turned his head and looked at him while he did it.  Jaskier rewarded him by reaching out and taking his chin in his hand, pressing another kiss to his forehead, then one to his chin, then, finally, a softly open-mouthed kiss to his mouth.  Geralt’s mouth softened under his, his lips parted, and he leaned forward a little into the kiss, but he didn’t reach out and put a hand on Jaskier’s knee, or put his hands on his shoulders, or anything Jaskier might have expected from him on another night.  Jaskier was not at all surprised by that, but he could feel his wanting in the way Geralt leaned in, opened his mouth, responded to Jaskier’s lips and his mouth, so he just rubbed at Geralt’s thigh, the one that hadn’t been opened by a siren’s claws, and kissed him softly and deeply, holding his chin for it, for long moments before he pulled away.</p><p>Geralt’s eyes were closed, his shoulders more relaxed.  Jaskier let his hands rest on them, rubbing them gently.  “They’ll be bringing up a bath soon,” he said.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  Jaskier lifted his hand, pushed hair back out of Geralt’s face.</p><p>“Supposing you wanted to talk about it . . .” Jaskier continued.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Geralt muttered.</p><p>“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Jaskier said cheerfully.  They would talk about it, a bit, by the end of the night, he was sure.  It was clear, though, that Geralt wasn’t even close to ready for that.  He patted Geralt’s knee.  “After the bath, I’ll sew this up for you,” he said.  “And your back, too, a few of those look deep enough to need a few good stitches.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, which was an agreement, since an argument would have involved cursing.</p><p>“That’s it,” Jaskier said.  He got up and took off his doublet, pulled on a fresh shirt from out of their things, and set about tidying and wiping down Geralt’s armor and his blade, knowing that Geralt would just fret until he did.  He was aware of Geralt’s eyes on him as he did.</p><p>“I can do that,” Geralt said after a moment, low and rough, almost mumbling.</p><p>“I know,” Jaskier said, and straightened up to give him a warm smile.  “But look at how far I’ve come at doing it!  You’re not even snatching my hands away on the verge of an apoplectic fit anymore!”</p><p>That brought another little smile to Geralt’s face.</p><p>“Thought about it,” he said.</p><p>“Oh?” Jaskier asked, leaning on the chair and curling his hand over, resting his chin on his knuckles.  He swung his foot back and forth.  “What stopped you?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, smiling in that way that meant he was about to make one of his stupid little jokes.  Jaskier adored every one of them, because it was Geralt, <em>Geralt</em>, joking with <em>him</em>.  “Too tired.”</p><p>Jaskier pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense.  “Geralt!” he said.  “Really, I am cut to the quick, I am devastated, I am—”</p><p>“Go back to making yourself useful, bard,” Geralt said, smiling crookedly.</p><p>“I’m hopping to it,” Jaskier said.  “Just watch me, and be amazed!”  He gestured elaborately with the polishing rag in his hand.  “You see the most useful man on the Continent before you.  Your dedicated servant, your most humble slave, your adoring swain, your—”</p><p>“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt said, but he was smiling.</p><p>“All true, my dearest love,” Jaskier said, laughing as he went back to Geralt’s armor.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, sounding softly amused, which was one of the better reactions Jaskier could expect when he was being purposefully ridiculous.  Jaskier smiled at him, and Geralt smiled and ducked his head.  Jaskier was mostly done with his armor, at least with this cursory once-over, by the time there was a knock on the door.  Geralt startled visibly, twisted around and nearly snarled at it, which was a sure sign that he wasn’t feeling all that much better yet, still on edge from the hunt and everything that had happened.  Jaskier put down the rag and got up to answer the door, pressing a kiss to the top of Geralt’s head and squeezing his shoulder as he passed.</p><p>Sure enough, it was the innkeeper’s strapping son with the tub of water.  Jaskier was pleased to see the tub was big enough for the both of them to share, and he waggled his eyebrows suggestively as soon as the handsome lad’s back was turned when he knelt to build up the fire for them, nodded meaningfully at his fine arse and back muscles.  Geralt gave him the expected disgusted look back, and Jaskier was grinning as he tipped the young man and thanked him profusely, ushering him out.  The bath water was steaming hot, already filling the room with warmth.  Jaskier went over to his things and rifled through them until he found lavender oil and a sachet of dried chamomile.  He draped the sachet over the side of the bath and sprinkled some of the lavender oil into the water before using his hand to swirl it in.  The temperature seemed just as hot as Geralt never admitted he liked it, which was lovely.  He liked to use lavender oil in Geralt’s baths.  The clean, herbal scent seemed to do something to Geralt, perhaps as a result of his enhanced senses, leaving him loose and pliant.  It was Jaskier’s favorite massage oil for the same reason, though the scent of jasmine worked even better to relax Geralt and lull him into a loose, relaxed, open state of hazy pleasure.  Jasmine oil was simply much more expensive, and neither of them were exactly made of coin.</p><p>Satisfied with the bath’s readiness, Jaskier crossed the room back to Geralt.  Geralt stood as he approached him, reached out and curled his fingers against Jaskier’s hip, gently even as their broad, roughened warmth spread all through Jaskier’s entire body.  “Join me?” Geralt asked quickly, stepping in, wobbling a little still, and nosing at his cheek, nuzzling back toward his ear.</p><p>Jaskier smiled happily at him.  “I’m thrilled to be asked,” he told him honestly, feeling the flush of pleasure wash over the top of his head, suffuse his cheeks, and travel down his chest just as the warmth of the bath had done.  He had planned to bathe with Geralt already, of course, but Geralt asking and Jaskier asking him and gently coaxing him into it were two very different things, with very different feelings attached.  “It would be my very great pleasure.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, but he sounded pleased, and he nuzzled a little closer into Jaskier’s cheek.  Jaskier brought his hand up and stroked the back of his head, down through his dirty, tangled hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek even as he worked his hand down Geralt’s back to his spine, then tugged lightly on his smallclothes, kissing the impressive, huge, rounded muscle of his shoulder and biceps as he pushed him lightly toward the tub.  He tugged his smallclothes down as he went, Geralt, even injured as he was, more than graceful enough to step out of them easily.  He put his hands on the side of the tub and sent a glance back at Jaskier, whose eyes were on his arse, of course, where else?  It looked as fine as always.  Geralt growled a little, gave a shake of his head, but he had the light flush on his face, the back of his neck, the wide eyes and tiny quirk of his mouth, that meant he didn’t really mind.  Jaskier waved his hand airily.  “Get in,” he said.  “I want to see how high the water gets before I get in there with you.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, but he accepted Jaskier’s proffered hand and grip on his arm as he stepped into the tub.  He took a breath, then sank down in the bath, hissing as the water rocked up over his injuries, flinching and twisting just a little in one direction as it stung on the slashes on his back and his chest, his hand clenching on the side of the tub.</p><p>“It’s good for your wounds to get washed out,” Jaskier said, trailing his palm over Geralt’s shoulder in a soothing pass.</p><p>Geralt just grunted.</p><p>“Do you want to watch me undress?” Jaskier asked, winking.  It would distract Geralt, if nothing else.  He put his hands on his hips and did an obviously quite suggestive little shimmy.</p><p>Geralt gave him a <em>look</em>, his eyebrows drawing together.  “Hmm,” he snorted.  But he also licked his bottom lip, and his eyes were hugely dilated, his throat and cheeks lightly flushed.  Jaskier knew what that meant, and it made <em>him</em> feel flushed and warm and wanted, too.</p><p>“I know,” Jaskier said, and sighed dramatically and striking a questioning pose.  “You love my body.  Is it a gift, or is it a curse, to be this beautiful, this blessed by the gods?”  He began pulling at the laces to his shirt.</p><p>Geralt snorted.</p><p>“You act as if you can resist me,” Jaskier said, “while I know quite intimately that you can <em>not</em>.  You’re not fooling anyone, Geralt.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.</p><p>Jaskier pulled off his shirt and put his hand on his hip.  “Well?” he asked.</p><p>“Looks the same as it did last I saw it,” Geralt said.</p><p>“You are a cruel man,” Jaskier told him, though the effect was spoiled by the fact that he was laughing.  “Cruel.”  He reached around for the back ties of his breeches, unlaced the front, and reached down to pull off his boots.</p><p>“You could turn around,” Geralt suggested mildly.</p><p>“Ohohoho,” Jaskier said, shooting another wink at him over his shoulder as he did so.  “I know,” he said.  “You can’t resist this arse.  Who could?”</p><p>“Yennefer,” Geralt said, which made Jaskier laugh in surprise.</p><p>“Well, yes,” he admitted.  “I expect so.  In fact, I pray she continues to resist.”  Not that Jaskier wouldn’t have enjoyed a roll about the bedsheets with the lady.  She was breathtaking, of course, which she knew, and possessed of the kind of self-possessed disposition and fiery passion that intrigued.  She was also <em>fucking terrifying</em>, and Jaskier would never do that to Geralt, anyway.  Unless, of course, both he and Yennefer were on board with the notion, which was . . . well, an interesting thought, but probably also a pointless one.  “But,” he added, “as established.  Not you.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said.  “Apparently you . . . already know, so why should I have to tell you?”  His words were coming slow, but evenly.</p><p>Jaskier laughed again, kicked his boots under the chair and turning back around.  “A man likes to be flattered.”</p><p>Geralt raised his eyebrows at him.  “<em>You</em> like to be flattered,” he said.</p><p>“Well, yes,” Jaskier agreed, and fluttered his eyelashes at him, pouting prettily.  “I do.  Aren’t you going to flatter me, Geralt?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  “You’re not hideous.”</p><p>“Well!” Jaskier said, feigning shock and mild insult and deepening his pout.  “I’m glad to hear you think I’m not <em>hideous</em>.  I’d hate to think my <em>hideous</em> attentions distressed you in any way.”</p><p>Geralt snorted.  “You’re beautiful, Jask,” he muttered after a moment, looking down at the water of the bath.  “You know that.”</p><p>“That’s better,” Jaskier told him.  “I knew you could do it.”  He shimmied out of his trousers, tossed them over the chair as well.  “Should I dance, like the ladies do in the brothels?” he asked.</p><p>Geralt choked.  Jaskier grinned and swung his hips, doing a quick little spinning turn.  When he turned back around, Geralt was splashing water on his face, which looked awfully red.  Jaskier grinned delightedly.</p><p>“I’ll take that,” he said.  “However, lacking you might be in the flattery department, my dearest.”  He slid out of his drawers and went over to their packs to collect the other supplies he needed.  He was aware of Geralt’s eyes on him as he went.  He filled a kettle with the pitcher of water already in the room from earlier in the day and swung it over the fire, then took a bucket and dipped it into the bath, setting it aside full of steaming water, pulled a chair close and put his medical supplies, oils, and soap on it, draped towels over the back, and then, finally, stepped into the water himself.  He gave a sigh of pleasure as the warmth washed up over his knees, realizing how cold he’d been himself ever since their jaunt through the sewers.  “Here, love,” he said, gesturing at Geralt.  “Scoot forward.  I’ll get behind you.”</p><p>Geralt did as he was bid, sighing a little and leaning forward over his knees, closing his arms over them and putting his head down.  Always so tractable, when he was like this, for all his growls and snarls, Jaskier thought fondly, and ran his fingers affectionately over his head, through his hair, as he stepped around behind him and settled down onto his knees.  The water <em>was</em> nice and hot, but it hardly registered next to the warmth and closeness of Geralt’s body.  Jaskier never failed to feel honored, a little dizzy, a little overcome, whenever Geralt so clearly and openly showed him his back.  He could see a little shiver go through Geralt’s muscles, a twitch or a flinch, and knew he felt the vulnerability of it, too.  He followed that shiver with a finger, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the dirty hair at the back of Geralt’s head.  “Thank you, dear heart,” he said.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but he was shivering.  Jaskier petted his shoulders, his neck, slipping his fingers under the chain of his medallion, gently, slid his hands gently down his sides, under the steaming water, as he sat down himself, slid his legs out on either side of Geralt’s, squeezed his knees lightly at his hips.</p><p>“I’ll wash your back and these wounds clean, first,” he told him, reaching for the soap.</p><p>Geralt gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment and just rested his head on his crossed arms, over his knees.  His wrists were lax, loose.  Jaskier swiped his hair forward, over one shoulder, and got to work.  The gashes weren’t bad at all, anymore, after the rounds of potions Geralt had taken, though a few were still oozing blood into the bath under the influence of the hot water.  Jaskier examined them carefully, wincing at the damage to Geralt’s skin and muscle, shallow as they were, but there didn’t seem to be any poison or detritus in the wounds, so he just washed them gently, thoroughly, with the soap and rinsed them clean with more of the water.  Once that was done, he spread his hands out over Geralt’s back, lathered him with soap up over his shoulders and all the way down to his buttocks.  Geralt barely even stirred then, even as Jaskier rinsed him clean with his hands, so Jaskier didn’t bother him, just skimmed his hands gently up over his hips, rinsing him clean there as well, and exploring a nasty bruise on Geralt’s hip, along with a shallow scratch, with the gentlest touch of the pads of his fingers he could manage.  Geralt twitched a little, but didn’t move further, even as Jaskier soaped up his shoulders down his arms to his elbows and rinsed them clean as well.  He might have used a cloth to soap Geralt and to scrub him clean, but he had the feeling Geralt could use the contact of his hands.</p><p>Jaskier wasn’t certain exactly of Geralt’s mental state—sometimes he wasn’t yet ready for this much softness, after a night like that night had been, from just a bath and a little bit of gentleness—but he risked it anyway, stroking his hands over Geralt’s now clean shoulders and whispering, “You're doing so well for me.  You bore that so well.  You’re so good, Geralt, my love.”</p><p>Geralt sighed, and his shoulders dropped forward.  His arms tightened around his knees, pressing his face down, as if he were curling into a ball.  Jaskier wasn’t certain if that was a good or bad reaction, just stroked his hand gently over Geralt’s shoulders, trying to coax out the tension he was carrying there, pressed another kiss to the back of his head.  Geralt shivered when he did, and Jaskier squeezed his shoulders, wanting to steady him, to provide something for him to push back against if he needed it.</p><p>“I’ll do your hair next, shall I?” Jaskier asked.  He wasn’t particularly expecting a response, but Geralt did give a low, raspy <em>hmm</em> of agreement, which made Jaskier feel rather warm.  He trailed his wet fingers down the back of Geralt’s damp, dirty neck, along his hair.  “That’s my good man,” he whispered.</p><p>Geralt shuddered.</p><p>“I’ve got you,” Jaskier told him softly.  He soaped up his hands again, the back of Geralt’s neck, rinsing it carefully, washed up behind his ears, rubbing his fingers in just behind them, above them, massaging carefully against his skull, at the sensitive skin just there, Geralt shuddering again under the touch, then pulled his hands away.  Geralt just sighed, and his shoulders dropped their hunch, relaxing, as Jaskier slid his hands down over them.  “That’s it,” Jaskier added in a whisper, and he cupped water in his hands and knelt up to wet Geralt’s hair with it, listening to his quiet little sigh, did it again and again, coaxed Geralt to duck his head under the water, reaching forward to brush hair out of his eyes as he came back up, dabbing Geralt’s brow dry as he went.  That done, he reached for the bottle of liquid soap he used on his own hair.  It smelled of lavender, and it helped catch and wash out dirt and oil better than plain soap, left hair softer and more supple.  Geralt’s hair was already silkier and softer than it had been when Jaskier had first met him, and he didn’t even get a chance to use it for him all that often.  He enjoyed the way Geralt would grunt and sigh as he started to work it into a lather, sinking his hands into his hair to make sure to get it good and deep, stroking his hands down over the strands to coax the natural oils to coat his hair, rubbing his scalp hard with his fingertips.  He gently picked up his hair, let his sudsy fingers rub over Geralt’s temple, checking for bruises, along a bruise over his cheek, his forehead.  Geralt grunted, shivered again, as Jaskier slid both hands up over his forehead back into his hair.  He piled it up on top of his head, making sure he’d sudsed it all up sufficiently, scrubbed at the nape of his neck until he was sure he’d gotten it all well and truly soapy.  Geralt let him, tilting his head forward, and Jaskier was far from blind to the show of trust that was as he ran his hands up and down the back of that strong neck, gently moving the chain of Geralt’s witcher’s medallion to let him as he did.</p><p>When Geralt’s hair was sufficiently sudsed up for him, he rubbed his thumbs into the back of his neck in slow circles, coaxingly.  “Lie back for me, my dear?” he murmured.</p><p>Geralt sighed, a long, slow exhale.  “Hmm,” he agreed, then slowly straightened up from where he’d been bent over his knees, moved to lie back.  He let Jaskier support him at the back of his neck with his hand curved firmly against the strong muscle there, the other against his shoulder, as he leaned back into the hot water.  He braced himself against Jaskier’s thigh, the side of the bath, eyes closed and lips parted on soft breaths as Jaskier ran his hand through Geralt’s hair, untangling it and rinsing the suds from it as he did.  “Mmm,” Geralt mumbled.  He looked almost beatific like that, hair drifting in the water, his eyes closed.  The frown had relaxed, the lines of care easing on his face.  Jaskier dared to hope that he was maybe not thinking of it all at the moment, that he was relaxed enough to be forgetting some of his burdens, just then, though Geralt’s hand was flexing restlessly at the side of the tub, his thumb rubbing in a restive pattern against the wood.</p><p>“That’s it,” Jaskier said, scrubbing the last of the suds out of Geralt’s hair and pushing him up with both hands to sit him up again.  “That’s good, love.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, frowning a little again, but he allowed Jaskier to hike him upward, pushing him upright, leaned forward again and docilely enough let Jaskier suds up his hair all over again.  Jaskier dug his fingers in firmly, giving him more of a scalp and neck massage than anything else, more than really washing it, now.  He knew Geralt loved this, more than he’d ever admit to, even upon pain of death, but that was all right.  He didn’t have to admit it, not out loud.  Jaskier could see it in the way his muscles loosened, his neck and shoulders relaxed, the humming sounds he made, the way he moaned sometimes, and slumped forward, or back into Jaskier’s hands, eyes going heavy or shutting entirely.  The way he sometimes smiled at Jaskier afterwards, or kissed him.  Even now, he gave a few grunts and low, barely voiced moans of pleasure as Jaskier worked his hands through his hair.</p><p>This time, Jaskier got up to his knees, then up to his feet, reaching for the bucket of water he’d dipped out earlier to make room for himself in the tub.  “All right, splash of water, shut your eyes,” he said, and tipped out half of it over Geralt’s head, helping to rinse the soap out of his hair.  He set the bucket down and knelt again, worked his hands through Geralt’s hair, cupping his hands and pouring handfuls of water over it, when he needed more to rinse out the last of the soap.</p><p>That done, he reached for another little bottle of lavender oil he’d put on the chair, this one simply sweet almond oil infused with lavender, and shook a few drops out into his hands, then ran them through Geralt’s hair, making certain he’d worked it well through, adding a little extra to the ends.  Geralt grunted again, which, knowing Geralt, was probably supposed to convey something along the lines of <em>that’s unnecessary</em> or <em>you don’t have to do that</em>.  Jaskier happily ignored it.  If Geralt wanted Jaskier to stop playing with his hair or to dote over him less, he’d just have to use his words.  He squeezed gently at Geralt’s shoulders, letting the oil soak into his hair, and reached for the soap again, leaning over his shoulder.</p><p>Geralt grunted, and his eyes fluttered.  He looked up at Jaskier, dazedly, a little dreamily, Jaskier thought, through his lashes.  “Relaxed, my lovely?” Jaskier asked, cheerfully.  “That’s good.  No, you don’t have to wake up.  I just want to wash your front side.  How are those scratches, hmm?  How’s the wound in your thigh?”</p><p>Geralt’s nostrils flared, then he shrugged, shifted to look down at it, flexed the muscle in his thigh.  A moment later, he reached down to touch around it, dragging his fingers over it, poking at it.</p><p>“You stop that,” Jaskier told him firmly, grabbing his wrist and pulling it away.  “Honestly, Geralt.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.  “Still bleeding a little.  Better.  ‘S fine.”</p><p>“Fine, right,” Jaskier said, with a heavy dose of irony.  That was the description Geralt used for everything from head wounds to being stabbed through the stomach to a twisted ankle to the headaches and nausea at times brought on by his keen senses, especially when the effects of his potions didn’t wear off until long after a hunt was done.  “Yes, I’m sure it’s fine.  Well, it won’t be, Geralt, if you keep poking it like that.  Here.”  He slid his hand around Geralt’s, twined their fingers, and squeezed, pulling his hand away.  Geralt grunted again but let him.  Jaskier squeezed his hand again, put his hands on his shoulders, and coaxed him backward.  There was some scrambling about to get them situated in a position that was comfortable for Geralt, not pressing on the wounds on his back overmuch but still cradled in Jaskier’s arms, but eventually they got him in a position, half reclining in the tub, that seemed comfortable enough, so that he could rest his head on Jaskier’s shoulder and the side of the bath, wet hair resting over his shoulder out of the bathwater.  He did, turning his head in against Jaskier’s throat, tilting it up and breathing in deep, so that his lips rested against the pulse in Jaskier’s neck.  Geralt took another deep breath and swallowed, hard, pressing closer.</p><p>He was heavy, as always, but Jaskier didn’t mind.  He had never minded.  He stroked his hand through Geralt’s hair, over his forehead and back, down through the wet, clinging strands, and pressed a kiss there, against his brow.  “Hello there, love,” he said.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said.  His nose was right up against Jaskier’s neck, under the hinge of his jaw.  Jaskier knew he was smelling him, scenting him, and hoped it was soothing him.  He petted Geralt’s hair again, down to his shoulder, rubbed there, and heard Geralt give a low rumble from deep in his chest.  He smiled, brushed Geralt’s hair back a little more with his fingers, nuzzled in against his forehead, kissed his eyebrow, and then pulled back just enough to get a good look at what he was doing.</p><p>Geralt brought his hand up as Jaskier moved his medallion back over his shoulder, soaped up his chest and the front of his shoulders, and curled that hand around the side of Jaskier’s neck with a sigh as he rinsed soap off his front, careful to be gentle.  His big warm palm was damp, moist, warm from the water, against Jaskier’s neck, the broad rough heel of it a pleasant source of heat just under his chin like an ember, Geralt’s fingers curling into his hair.  Jaskier smiled, brushed a kiss against his knuckles, and turned his attention to carefully washing out the wounds on Geralt’s chest.  They were still sluggishly oozing blood, a bit more rapidly under the warm water.  Jaskier was careful to keep his hands gentle, knowing the soap had to sting, though Geralt barely reacted, as he washed them out, then rubbed the soap down over Geralt’s sides and the hard, ridged muscles of his abdomen, down over his hips.  Geralt grunted, at that, as Jaskier slid his hands teasingly down onto the uninjured tops of his thighs.</p><p>“Mmm,” Jaskier said, when he felt the telltale twitch of Geralt’s hips.  “You’ll have to wait for that.”</p><p>Geralt gave an unsatisfied sounding mumble, but he didn’t protest more than that as Jaskier brought the soap up and began sudsing up his arms, soaping him up down over his elbows, picked up his free hand and began to soap up each hard, callused finger, feeling the roughened, scarred, warm skin under his hands, running his fingers back up over the strong bones in the back of Geralt’s hand.  He rinsed off his arm, scrubbing over his forearms and palm, even as Geralt huffed out a breath of air that settled, warm, at the hollow of Jaskier’s throat, then he took Geralt’s broad hand in both of his and began to rub it, giving it a massage, squeezing and rolling his own palms against it rhythmically.  Geralt grunted and gave a protesting little grumble at first, but then settled again with his head against Jaskier’s shoulder, so Jaskier just kept at it, until Geralt’s hand and wrist felt limp and relaxed.  Geralt gave another low rumble of displeasure again when Jaskier reached for his hand at his neck, but he didn’t offer any resistance as Jaskier repeated the process with that one too, soaping him up, rinsing him clean, and then rubbing his hand until it felt relaxed and fell easily into the water when he was done.</p><p>That accomplished, Jaskier reached down, slid his hand along the inside of Geralt’s strong, sturdy thigh, spread his legs gently, pushed the injured one upward so he could get at it better.  Geralt’s eyes flickered open, and he glanced downward, but he didn’t move.  His breathing deepened, evened out even more.</p><p>“This one’s deeper,” Jaskier told him, trying to make his voice bright, “so it might sting a bit more.”  He knew Geralt could bear the pain without a murmur, but that wasn’t really the point.  He wanted him to know Jaskier cared that he was hurting, most of all.  He held his knee firmly with his hand as he ran the soap over Geralt’s thigh, over the wound, making sure it was washed out.  He was very aware of Geralt’s blood in the water around them, the way the distressing sight tugged at his insides.  “There,” he said when he was finished.  “That’s done.”  He took a breath, pressed his lips against Geralt’s hair, felt it shudder in his throat.  “You did so well for me.  You did so well, you were so good.”  He swallowed hard, feeling a rush of sudden, heartfelt emotion, felt his eyes stinging with it, couldn’t deny the urge to wrap his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, press close against him, pressing his face closer into his hair.  “My brave witcher, you fought so valiantly, you did everything that was needed, and you were so good, so strong, you’re always so good, and now you’ll let me make you feel good, won’t you?”</p><p>Geralt straightened up with a rush, one of the lightning-quick moments that one simply became accustomed to around a witcher, making a wave of water slosh against the side of the tub.  His shoulders hunched forward and he squeezed his hand on the edge of the tub until it creaked dangerously.  “Shut up,” he growled, not looking at Jaskier, damp hair falling forward as he turned away from him.  “Don’t use your pretty lies on me.”</p><p>“What?” Jaskier sputtered, lying sprawled against the tub where Geralt’s rush upwards had pushed him back against it.  He felt himself shivering, suddenly deprived of Geralt’s warmth all along his front and between his legs.  “I—I assure you, Geralt, I am not lying to you.  What, precisely, do you believe me to be lying about?”</p><p>Geralt’s head ducked down further.  “Not,” he muttered.  “What you said.”  His hand clenched into a fist against the side of the bath.  “Didn’t . . . hunt wasn’t.  Good.”</p><p>Shit.  Jaskier had begun to dare to hope that Geralt was relaxed enough, that the warmth of his body, the bath, all of it, had soothed him enough to let the hunt slip into the past where it belonged, to let it go.  He should have known better, really.  Geralt never seemed to let things go so easily, and he was as stubborn as a horse’s arse about it, too.  Jaskier took a breath, pushed himself back up in the tub.  He opened his mouth to speak, but apparently Geralt wasn’t yet done abusing himself for Jaskier’s edification.</p><p>“Too late.”  Geralt said, shook his head, once, sharply.  He took a deep, shuddering breath.  His voice as a deep, low rasp, like metal over stone, even raspier and hoarser than it usually was.  “Sloppy.  It was a bad hunt.  I’m not.  Strong, or.  Or anything of those things you said.  And you can keep your—your pity, and shut <em>up</em>.”</p><p>“First of all, it’s not pity,” Jaskier said, with determination and an effort to keep his voice bright and even.  “And you know how terrible I am at shutting up.”</p><p>Geralt growled at him and lurched forward, putting both hands on the rim of the tub like he would stand up, then instead just stayed where he was, head bent forwards.  He flinched when Jaskier reached forward and touched him lightly, running his hands softly, just a feather-light touch, over his shoulders.  Still, he settled, and he didn’t pull away from him, thank the gods.  He let Jaskier rub his thumbs over the rounded, muscular arch of his shoulders, down over his biceps, let him scoot up behind him and wrap his arms around his torso, careful of his wounds, so that Geralt’s medallion brushed the top of his arm, even if he was holding himself rigid and still.  Jaskier brushed the softest of kisses over his shoulder, pressing his knees against Geralt’s thighs.  He wanted to cradle Geralt with his body, to hold him, grasp him close to his chest, to his heart, very, very much, but he also had an ulterior motive—if he was curled around him like this, Geralt wouldn’t go and leap out of the tub any time soon.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he murmured.  “I know I’m light-minded, silver-tongued, a flatterer, a liar, an exaggerator, a storyteller, and anything else you wish to say about me.  But I’m not flattering you now.  I’m just calling things how I see them so far tonight, my love.”</p><p>“You were . . . trying to make me feel better,” Geralt growled from under the fall of his hair.  “But I—don’t need that, lark.  If I wanted to feel better, I should have done better.  I acted like a rank amateur, not an experienced witcher.  A single siren, and I let myself get hurt.  Stupid and sloppy.  And you were there and—” his jaw clenched, snapped closed.</p><p>“Yes, well,” Jaskier said.  “And you’ve been there to see me get pelted with day old bread and eggs and rotten cabbages, on occasion.  Do you think I relished those moments overmuch?”</p><p>“I’m not going to get killed if a crowd doesn’t like your playing, bard,” Geralt growled.</p><p>“Stranger things have happened,” Jaskier said.  “Some crowds can be pretty rough.”  And Geralt hated fighting humans, often wouldn’t fight back.  He squeezed lightly at Geralt’s biceps on both sides, rubbed his thumbs gently, soothingly, down the curves of his muscles, over old scars.  “I’m fine,” he said.  “You protect me so well.  All the time.  And whether you were perfect tonight or not, I was in no danger.  None at all.  You were there, and she never even touched me.”</p><p>“Could have,” Geralt grunted.  “I was so fucking sloppy.  Fuck.  You’ve always been susceptible to sirens, Jask.  I should never have brought you along.”</p><p>“Ah, but I listened to you this time, didn’t I?” Jaskier said.  “I listened to you, and I protected myself, and I was perfectly safe.”  He kissed the spot just behind Geralt’s ear, and Geralt shuddered all the way down his torso, into his legs.  “I’m glad you did bring me along,” he breathed.  “Not for my songs, not this time.  But because you would have been alone down there, otherwise.  In that drippy cold cavern and making your way back through that wretched sewer.  I wanted to be there.  I’m glad I was.  When you’re hurt, do you think I don’t want to help you?”</p><p>“I don’t need <em>your</em> help,” Geralt snarled.  It would have been easy to be hurt by that, and it did sting, a little.  A few years ago, perhaps, it would have stung worse.  But Jaskier knew, now, that what made Geralt lash out, like that, wasn’t because he cared nothing for Jaskier; it was because he cared what he felt was <em>too much</em>, and that made every angry growl or dismissive, snapping comment a great deal easier to bear.</p><p>“Not the most courteous thank you I’ve ever received,” Jaskier drawled, and kissed the top of Geralt’s head.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Geralt snarled.</p><p>“Mmm, no,” Jaskier said, running his fingers through Geralt’s hair.  “I don’t believe I shall.”</p><p>“Damn you,” Geralt growled at him.  His shoulders hunched in, and then he was rounding on him, snarling, golden eyes lit up with heat, with emotion.  “Fuck, you are so—so <em>fucking</em> infuriating, I don’t know why I put up with you.”</p><p>Jaskier fell back in the water and laughed in his face.  “Oh, you don’t, do you?” he asked.  “It has <em>nothing</em> to do with my cock or my arse or the very thorough way I fuck you, I’m <em>sure</em>.”  Or the way he held him, after, but this clearly wasn’t the time to bring that up.  “You’re just wracking your brains and coming up with <em>nothing at all</em>, are you?”</p><p>Geralt growled at him, practically a roar, teeth bared, and hit the side of the bath.  Jaskier wasn’t particularly alarmed, though Geralt only rarely lashed out like this when Jaskier was around.  He had just been purposefully aggravating his poor witcher, after all, and Geralt didn’t have a lot of outlets for his emotions.  He had to let it out somehow.</p><p>“Now, don’t shatter the bathtub,” he said.  “We haven’t the coin to pay for the damage a flood would cause.”</p><p>Geralt pulled back, seeming to diminish somehow, shrinking into himself, panting, dropped his face into his hands.  He gave a grunting little mmm of a noise into his own palms.</p><p>“What is it, dearest?” Jaskier asked, settling forward onto his knees, reaching forward but not quite touching him, not quite sure if now was the moment, yet.</p><p>Geralt was shaking.  He dragged his hands down his face, clenched them into fists, and dropped them, looking away and down.  Hiding his face from Jaskier.</p><p>“Love?” Jaskier prompted, gently.  “Geralt.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Geralt mumbled.</p><p>“I’d like to,” Jaskier said, honestly, and at least that surprised a little huff of a laugh out of Geralt.  He looked up at him, then away again, then sighed, long and low.</p><p>“I’m,” he said, and swallowed.  “… Fuck.  I’m.”</p><p>“Gorgeous?” Jaskier asked.  He reached out, laid a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezed.  Geralt trembled; he could feel it against his fingertips.  Geralt scowled at him, then, blew another breath out, giving him a look, even though his mouth quirked a little.</p><p>“No,” he said.  “I said no sweet lies, Jask.”</p><p>Jaskier pouted at him, slid down and put his chin on top of his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, pouting up at him through his eyelashes.  “Ah, but I’m weak,” he said, “and I can’t help the pounding desires of my loins, or my heart.  And you set me afire, love.”</p><p>Geralt flushed.  “Shut up,” he said.</p><p>Jaskier winked up at him.  “All true,” he said.  “As you should know.”  He reached up, trailed one finger along Geralt’s jaw, over his lips, feeling them part for him, then tapped his nose gently and straightened up again.</p><p>Geralt scowled at him, frowning.  “Anyway, that’s not . . . not what I meant,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Oh?” Jaskier asked, flicking him gently with the water.  “And what did you mean, then?”</p><p>Geralt swallowed, hard, and it looked nearly painful.  He shrugged and looked away.  Jaskier waited, even though the water was cooling rapidly, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand in a classic posture of receptive listening.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, after a moment, then, “Should have better control than that.”</p><p>Jaskier scoffed.  “You have enough control for ten men,” he said.  “You hardly need any more.  You were never going to hurt me, were you?”</p><p>Geralt swallowed reached out, touched Jaskier’s hand, just the barest whisper of a touch, stroking the backs of his fingers down his forearm.  He turned his hand and rubbed his thumb against the skin just under Jaskier’s elbow, squeezed gently.</p><p>Jaskier dropped his other hand on top of Geralt’s, under the water, squeezed gently to reflect Geralt’s gesture, twined their fingers together.</p><p>“What I said,” Geralt said, roughly, gruffly.  “It’s the other way around.”</p><p>“What’s that?” Jaskier asked.</p><p>Geralt took a deep breath.  “Don’t know why you still put up with <em>me</em>,” he muttered, looking away, still down at their linked hands.  “There are . . .” he swallowed.  “There are other people you could sing to, lark.  With a better ear for music, and . . . .”  He shook his head.  “Who wouldn’t lash out at you when you’re being—fuck.”  He gestured vaguely at Jaskier, swallowed again.  “Or say . . . cruel, stupid things.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” Jaskier said, with a bit of a wry grin.  “I’m not sure this comes as a shock to you, but you’re not the only one who has cruel words for me, sweetling.  Even confining ourselves to lovers alone, sad to say.  I’m spectacularly irritating.  It’s one of my greatest talents, and I have refined it, over many years and with much practice, trust me.”</p><p>Geralt growled a little, and his hand tightened around Jaskier’s.  “You should want to leave,” he growled through his teeth.  “Why don’t you just go?”</p><p>“Honestly, Geralt,” Jaskier said.  “I’ll thank you to refrain from telling me what I should want or should do. You know me better than that.  I know you do.  You know perfectly well that I react poorly to such things.  Orders, ultimatums, directions, rules . . . all of the above.  Have the exact opposite effect on me than the one desired.  Always have done.”</p><p>“I mean it, Jask,” Geralt said, more hotly.  “You shouldn’t stay when—when people are cruel to you.  You should do . . . you should do what’s good for you.”  He squeezed Jaskier’s hand again, swinging it back and forth in the water, before he brought it to rest against his own leg again, squeezed it against his muscular thigh.</p><p>“Yes, well,” Jaskier said, though he couldn’t keep the roughness, the fondness out of his voice, the way his throat and chest tightened with emotion, with affection for Geralt, for his caring.  “I make my own choices, thank you.  You know that.  And I’m afraid I will be the one to decide what is good for me.  You do have your rights, as my lover, I’ll allow, but I retain the right to speak on my behalf and insist that I have more rights, for myself.  And, after all, I know a great deal more about that particular topic than you do.”  He reached out, traced his finger down Geralt’s jaw, took his chin and tilted his head back up toward him, and was pleased when Geralt allowed it.  He looked into his witcher’s lovely golden eyes and spoke with all the soft sincerity he could muster, hoping it showed on his face, in his voice, that Geralt wouldn’t just write it off as more so-called sweet words.  “I hope you do realize that, generally speaking, traveling with you makes me deliriously happy, you silly clod.”  He cupped his hand against Geralt’s jaw.  “Don’t you think that’s good for me?” he asked, more tenderly.  “Being happy?”</p><p>“In danger,” Geralt muttered, but he didn’t pull away.  “Sleeping rough.  Cold.  Hungry.”</p><p>“I’ve always wanted a life of adventure,” Jaskier said, and then, softly, “and besides which, it’s with you.”</p><p>Geralt scoffed.  He closed his eyes, leaned forward, let his forehead touch Jaskier’s, linger there.  “Some consolation,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Excuse me,” Jaskier said, and gripped his chin gently.  “I find it’s all the consolation I require.”  Geralt’s breath felt warm on his chin, on his cheek.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said.  He put his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, and they stayed there, for a moment.  “You’re shivering,” Geralt said, finally.</p><p>“Yes, well,” Jaskier said, biting down hard to keep his teeth from chattering as a shudder passed through him as if in response to Geralt’s words.  “The water’s getting cold.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  He moved Jaskier back, pushing him up against the other side of the bath, then made a sign with his fingers, under the water.  Fire bloomed in his hand and immediately was extinguished.  The bath heated back up to steaming temperature.  “Should have said,” Geralt muttered.  “You haven’t washed yet.”</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier said, with a little laugh of exasperated fondness, “my dearest, I didn’t want you straining yourself, not after all that.”</p><p>Geralt shrugged.  “Not a strain,” he said, looking down at the bathwater again, trailing his hand through it.</p><p>“Well, if you say so,” Jaskier said lightly, not wanting to push.  He stretched out his arms, arching his back, enjoying the new warmth of the water, the way the steam was washing up over his chest and his limbs.  “Mmmm, this is lovely, Geralt, thank you.”  Geralt smiled, just a little, shot him a sideways look, out of the corner of his eyes, then returned his gaze to the water.  “I’ll just wash then, shall I?” Jaskier continued.  He didn’t really wait for a response, just ducked his head under the water, submerging himself, then came back up and reached for the soap again.  He didn’t linger over it, scrubbing himself down, from the back of his neck down over his legs, mostly anxious to make sure he got off the smell of the sewers.</p><p>Geralt touched his shoulder, and startled him, so Jaskier made it into a performance, flung one arm out and turned a smile on him.  “Oh, Geralt,” he said.  “Fancy meeting you here.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, and frowned, holding his hand out for the soap.  “I’ll do your back.”  He still wasn’t quite meeting Jaskier’s eyes.  “If you like.”</p><p>“If I’d <em>like</em>,” Jaskier exclaimed, feigning shock.  “Of <em>course</em> I would like.”  He surrendered the soap with a will and turned around to offer Geralt his back.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but it sounded more thoughtful this time, as he dipped the soap in the water then started at the top of Jaskier’s shoulders, running it over his shoulder blades and working it up into a lather.  Jaskier shivered, feeling his whole body tingle and flush warm, as it always did at Geralt’s touch.  He was unfailingly gentle, however rough and broad his hands were, a little clumsy with it, but all the sweeter for it, the way he gently slid the soap down over Jaskier’s skin or scrubbed at it carefully with his hands, cupping water in his palms and bringing it up to rinse off the lather.  Jaskier sighed in pleasure.</p><p>“Oh, you are so good at that,” he murmured.  “You can do that any time.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, with a little huff of breath through his nose, but he sounded pleased.  He finished, washing all the way down to Jaskier’s hips, then left his hands on his shoulders, rubbed his thumb gently at the side of his neck.  Jaskier sighed in pleasure and tilted his head to one side, encouraging the touch.  Geralt stroked that thumb all the way up to his jaw, up and down, behind his ear.  “Could do your hair,” he offered.</p><p>“Oh, yes, <em>please</em>,” Jaskier said with a sigh of pure pleasure.  Perhaps Geralt was offering mostly out of guilt, but he still wasn’t going to squander it.  Geralt’s hands in his hair were too wonderful for that.  Perhaps then Geralt would finally remember how much Jaskier enjoyed his strong, steady touch, how much pleasure he could offer him, how much Jaskier trusted him.  He let his eyes slide closed.</p><p>Geralt was just as gentle and careful with his hair as he had been with Jaskier’s back, using water cupped in his palms to wet it again.  Jaskier handed him the liquid soap, and Geralt gave a grunt of assent, lathered it up with his hands and began to work it into Jaskier’s hair.  Jaskier had experimented with longer hair several times in the past but decided it looked stupid each time and returned to his shorter style.  At the moment, however, he was regretting that just a touch, since if he had longer hair Geralt would have more of an excuse to linger over the task and keep rubbing his rough, warm hands over Jaskier’s scalp and neck.  As it was, he was so very gentle, despite it all, wetting Jaskier’s hair carefully with his cupped hands, running his fingers back through the strands, off his forehead, working the soap up into a lather, rubbing the heels of his hands against the base of his skull and the nape of his neck.  When he used the last of the water in the bucket to tip over Jaskier’s head and rinse it, carefully covering his eyes with his hand, it felt surprisingly, gloriously warm, and Jaskier realized that he must have used Igni again.</p><p>“Goodness,” he sighed.  “You’re spoiling me, sweetheart.  That feels <em>wonderful</em>.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, and he definitely sounded pleased that time as he rubbed his thumbs against the base of Jaskier’s neck and above his ears.  He carefully rinsed out the last of the soap.</p><p>“Ahhh,” Jaskier said, wriggling happily, luxuriating obviously in the feeling so that Geralt would know just <em>how</em> good he was feeling.  He smiled, leaned back into his hands.  “Mmm.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, brushing back wet strands of hair with his thumb, still holding Jaskier’s head up with both hands, and when Jaskier opened his eyes again, he was smiling, just a little.  Jaskier beamed back up at him.</p><p>“Absolutely spectacular,” he said.</p><p>Geralt gave a huffing little laugh and looked away.</p><p>“I mean it,” Jaskier insisted.  He leaned over, not pulling away from Geralt’s hands, stretching out his arm until he could wrap his hands around the almond and lavender oil and pushed it back up at Geralt.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, and took it from him.</p><p>“If you could pay extra attention to the ends,” Jaskier murmured.  “If you would.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  A moment later, his hands, nicely oiled, were in Jaskier’s hair again, rubbing gently along the strands, paying special attention to the ends, just as Jaskier had asked.</p><p>“Exactly,” Jaskier sighed.  “That’s so good, Geralt, thank you.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  He ruffled Jaskier’s hair with one gentle, oil-warmed hand, then leaned down, pressed an almost hesitant kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder.</p><p>Jaskier smiled, sighed in pleasure, and tilted his head against Geralt’s, reaching up and back with one hand to curl it into his hair and tug gently with his approval.  “I’d like you to know, love,” he said with another languid sigh, “you are welcome to do that every single night.”</p><p>“Hmmph,” Geralt said.  “Hedonist.”  He kissed Jaskier’s ear.</p><p>“Guilty as charged, my dearest,” Jaskier said, tilting his head back and smiling up at him, caressing Geralt’s face, thumb and fingers against his cheek.  “You know that.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but there was a soft little quirk of his face, his mouth, not quite a smile.  “Yet you follow me around.  Put up with me.”</p><p>“Adventure calls to my heart,” Jaskier said loftily.  “I have range.  I am composed of layers.  You know me; I’d wither away without excitement.  Become a dull, desiccated husk.”  Called Julian Alfred Pankratz, he thought ruefully, if his family had gotten their way.  “Also, there’s the little matter of you, yourself, witcher, as I believe I just said, not ten minutes ago.”  He gently flicked an uninjured part of Geralt’s vast chest.  “And the fact that I adore you.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  “No accounting for taste.”</p><p>Jaskier shoved him.  “Arse,” he said.  “I tell you how I adore you, worship you, admire you, fall at your feet with the ardor of my love, and this is the thanks I get.”</p><p>“No one asked you to do any of those things,” Geralt said brusquely.</p><p>“Ha,” Jaskier said.  He raised up on one knee, turned around in the bath, and moved to straddle Geralt, carefully not actually putting his weight down on him in case it pressed on his injured chest or thigh.  Geralt’s warmth went through him all the same.  He lifted his hands and cupped his face.  “And yet I make a gift of them, of myself, all the same.”  He slid his hands up, brushed hair off of Geralt’s face, back behind his ears.  “How are you feeling, might I ask?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt muttered, casting his eyes down.  Ah.  Still didn’t want to talk about it, then.</p><p>“All right,” Jaskier said, cheerfully.  “Close enough.”  He kissed Geralt’s forehead, brushing along it with his thumb, and then straightened up himself, using Geralt’s shoulders as a prop as he swung himself out of the bath.  Geralt gave a grunt of surprise and supported him, putting one hand gently on his arse, against his hip, pushing him up.  “Thank you,” Jaskier said, reaching for his towel and rubbing it roughly through his hair, rapidly, running both hands back through it to make sure it settled properly.  He shimmied himself dry with the towel before he wrapped it around his waist and reached out for Geralt.</p><p>Geralt gave him a look and put one hand on the edge of the bath before he gripped Jaskier’s forearm and pulled himself upward with a groan.  He was moving as if still a little stiff as he clambered out of the bath, and Jaskier went to his side in a rush, grabbing the other two towels, one of which he used on Geralt’s hair, toweling it dry, carefully taking locks in his hands and drying them with the towel, before he left it draped over Geralt’s head and started patting him dry with the other towel, carefully gentle over his chest, down over his thighs, kneeling to finish his legs and patting gently between his thighs, before he turned him around with a nudge to his hip.  Geralt turned docilely enough, even let Jaskier do the backs of his thighs and up over his buttocks, before patting his back dry just as carefully, and turning Geralt to face him again, gently swiping at his face, just a little, pushing his hair back.  “There,” he said.  He knew from the night before that the bed linens were lovely, crisp and clean, so he gave Geralt’s hair another toweling to dry it before he put one hand on his hip and cuddled up against his front, walking him back against the bed as he did.  He knew he had Geralt’s attention when his eyes dilated dramatically, went very dark and wide.  He stroked his hand up over Geralt’s other hip, up along his side, thumbed over his biceps, then reached around behind him and turned the bedclothes down, pushing on his shoulder.  “Sit down,” he said, “and I’ll stitch you up.  However feels most comfortable to you.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  He reached up, his hand lingering on Jaskier’s hip, rubbing gently with his thumb, before he leaned forward, laid his face against Jaskier’s belly, breath warm against his navel, ruffling the hair there.  Jaskier smiled at him, let his hand rest on his head, feeling the damp hair soft and clean under his fingers.</p><p>“There you are,” he murmured.  “That’s most comfortable, eh?  You must be getting tired.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt grunted.</p><p>“That potion you took before the fight will have worn off by now,” Jaskier said, still stroking Geralt’s hair, petting it gently, then squeezed his hand at the back of Geralt’s neck.  “I know how that depleted that leaves you.  Just lie down and let me take care of you, all right?”</p><p>Geralt just grunted again, but he let Jaskier coax him back, reclining his side against the pillows and the head of the bed, rolling his head against the headboard, back against the pillows.  “I can do it,” he muttered, but his eyes were closed, and he was barely moving his mouth.</p><p>“I don’t believe I ever said you couldn’t,” Jaskier said.  “However, I have neat stitches, yes?  Wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>Geralt sighed.  “Yes,” he said.  “You do.”</p><p>“And I insist,” Jaskier said.  He dragged the chair over, picked up one of the damp towels and pushed it under Geralt’s leg, then picked up the flask of vodka the innkeeper had given him.  “Now,” he said.  “This will sting a bit.”</p><p>Geralt just blew a breath out through his nose and formed one hand into a fist as Jaskier poured the vodka over his thigh wound.  He stayed perfectly still.  Of course, Jaskier knew this was probably hardly anything to him, as far as pain went.  He went through more on a regular basis.  But that wasn’t the point, and it didn’t stop him from reacting as if Geralt were an entirely different patient, hissing lightly for him, since Geralt wasn’t going to, and muttering, “That’s it, just a little sting, like I said.”  He got up, then, patting Geralt’s knee, and took the kettle off the fire.  He put the needle and thread he planned to use in one of the bowls on the table and poured a bit of the boiling water over them, then settled it back on the hook.  “We’ll just let that boil away for a bit,” he said.</p><p>He had known a very pretty girl in Oxenfurt who had been studying medicine who always insisted on boiling her implements and washing her hands before any procedure, and her impassioned arguments on the subject always occurred to him at times like this, especially because Yennefer and Geralt both insisted on the same sort of thing, a lot of boiling and washing.  And Jaskier had never had an infection while injured and under their care, he’d noticed.  Not that Geralt would probably care much if his wounds grew infected, being able to shrug it off with his witcher-enhanced healing, but it did horrible things, poisoned the blood, made people sick.  At least according to Yennefer, who had clearly been trying to scare him, but Jaskier didn’t think it was untrue, either, and he wanted healing, always, to be as easy for Geralt as possible, not to be any more trouble than it had to be.  He busied himself by washing his hands with more of the vodka, splashing it up over his wrists, then picked up the needle and thread and brought them back to kneel beside the bed to get a good look at Geralt’s injured thigh.</p><p>“All right,” Jaskier murmured to himself.  “I’ll just . . . get started, then.”</p><p>“Mm,” Geralt said.  His hand came up, settled gently in Jaskier’s hair, curling it around his fingers.  Jaskier felt himself smile.</p><p>“All right, then,” he said, took a deep, steadying breath, let himself wince and look away, before he set his teeth and blew out the breath and got back to it, looking back down at the injury and making his first stitch.  Geralt grunted a little, as the needle entered his skin, but of course he was as steady as a rock.  As always.  Jaskier still patted him gently with his other hand, rubbing his knee, before he went back to holding his leg for his stitches.  “You know,” he said, “I used to sit in the solar with my sisters while they did their embroidery.  I would play my lute, and they would make a pet of me.  My father once flew into a rage because they’d done my hair up with ribbons, but I think he was just angry that I was the prettiest one there.  At any rate, I learned how to sew from them.  You wouldn’t believe how handy it’s come in over the years.”</p><p>“Ribbons in your hair, Jask?” Geralt asked, rubbing his thumb gently along the top of his head, and he could he hear in his voice that he was smiling.</p><p>Jaskier grinned up at him.  “What, do you think I should adopt that style?”  He gave a little toss of his head, smiled at the warmth it sent through his whole body when Geralt curled his fingers a little tighter in his hair, cupping the back of his head with his big, broad, warm palm.  “It would be so awfully fetching, don’t you think?  I could start a new fashion.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said.  “Probably not your best look.”</p><p>“Hmm, probably not,” Jaskier allowed, making more stitches, concentrating on keeping them even, on keeping his hand from shaking.  “But then, you don’t like my hats, either.  What do you know about it?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.</p><p>“You’re just black, black, and more black,” Jaskier said, warming to his theme, still making stitches as neatly as he could make them.  “Not all of us can pull off the whole brooding in black leather, big scary loner look.  I mean, you do it very well, and all that, but I’m a man who lives for color.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  “You do.”  His voice sounded soft, a little scratchy and rough, a little appreciative.  Jaskier smiled, feeling his cheeks and chest flush warm, and ducked his head to his task.</p><p>“Well, it’s a dream of mine to one day get you properly tailored,” he said.  “I’ll make it happen, Geralt, just see if I don’t.”  He pursed his lips, looked up at him measuringly through his eyelashes.  “Green,” he said.  “Hmm, too bright for you?” he added, when Geralt scowled visibly.  “Gray?  Gray silk, and wool, in a fine weave. Dove gray, with accents of light gray like steel, or dark gray like iron, or slate.”  He went back to the stitches.  He was nearly done.  “Or a cream color, perhaps,” he said.  “Soft on the skin and worked with subtle designs.”</p><p>Geralt was going pink in the face.  “Don’t be stupid,” he muttered gruffly.  “What a waste.  Dressing up a pig in silk.  Might as well put Roach in a dress.”  His shoulders were hunching in the way they had when he was embarrassed enough to actually show it.</p><p>“What?” Jaskier said, faking offense, sitting back as he did.  “What’s ridiculous about wanting to dress up my handsome figure of a lover?  Hmm?  What’s so ridiculous about that, Geralt?”  He finished his stitches and tied them off.</p><p>“I look ridiculous in fine things, Jask,” Geralt, said, as if explaining a simple truth of the world.  He was still blushing, though.  “Like a—a fucking performing bear.  You know that.  What’s the point?”</p><p>“What’s the point?” Jaskier demanded, in a loud voice.  He jumped to his feet, gestured wildly at Geralt.  “What’s the <em>point</em>?  Geralt, my love, if you do not believe it is one of the fondest desires of my heart to dress you in the finest of silks, the most luxurious of cottons, the softest of wools, wyvern leather and silver, you are <em>deluding</em> yourself.  My dear one, you are a vision, a work of art, a fantasy come to life, a phantasm, a dream.”</p><p>“A phantom, maybe,” Geralt growled through his teeth.  His face was very flushed now.  “A ghoul.  Stop it, Jaskier.”</p><p>“Oh, please,” Jaskier shot back, putting his hands on his hips.  “You’re <em>ridiculous</em>, is what you are, and you dare, you dare, to call me the ridiculous one!”  He shook his head, while Geralt scowled at him.  “Turn onto your other side, dearest idiot,” Jaskier said, shaking his head at him again.  “You could use some stitches on your back.”</p><p>Geralt sighed and rolled over, pulling the towel with him and pressing it to the wounds on his chest, rolling forward nearly face down, pushing his face into the pillow.  Embarrassed, still, Jaskier gathered.  He sighed, rinsed his hands again, taking some more thread, and sat beside Geralt on the bed, nudging him over gently with his hip, to continue with his task, reaching for the flask of vodka again.  He poured a generous portion of it out, over Geralt’s back, saw Geralt’s muscles twitch minutely at the sting, capped it and set it back on the chair, since there was a goodly amount left, and started to stitch again, at the worst of the wounds on Geralt’s back.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.</p><p>“Is that a complaint I hear?” Jaskier asked, cheerful but still trying to keep his voice gentle.</p><p>“No,” Geralt grunted.</p><p>“You know most people probably would,” Jaskier said.  “Complain.  About someone putting needle and thread through their backside.  That is to say, back.”  He tied off his stitches for one of the wounds.</p><p>Geralt gave the tiniest huff of a laugh.  “Why?” he asked.  “I’m grateful that I have you to reach.  Thank you, Jaskier.”</p><p>“Gods, goddesses, sweet Melitele,” Jaskier exclaimed, clasping his free hand to his chest for a moment and casting his eyes up at the ceiling, even though Geralt couldn’t see him.  “Was that a <em>thank you</em> just now?  In truth?  Doth mine ears deceive me?”</p><p>He knew at once that he shouldn’t have teased Geralt, when his whole body tensed under his other hand on his back, muscles going tight.  <em>Fuck</em>, he thought, a moment before Geralt got one elbow onto him and surged up, rounding on him, teeth bared and face still noticeably flushed.  “Don’t have to put up with it,” he snarled.  “The mutant freak too graceless to even give you a thank you.  If it bothers you, why <em>do</em> you?”</p><p>“I never said it bothered me, Geralt—” Jaskier said, reaching toward Geralt on instinct.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Geralt growled.  His fists clenched, one against the bed, one against his thigh.  Shit, shit, shit.  “I know what I am.  You don’t have to pretend.  Why are you—why are you being like this—”</p><p>“Geralt, love,” Jaskier said loudly, over him.  “I was <em>teasing</em>, I didn’t realize it would take you like this, I swear it, I was just being stupid, you know how stupid I can be, how I get—”</p><p>“You don’t have to be kind, or—or <em>gentle</em> to me,” Geralt snarled, with a spectacular lack of any sense of irony, apparently, considering the moment Jaskier had let his tongue slip he’d reacted like <em>this</em>.  “I am not one of your sensitive noble ladies, you don’t have to be so—so tender, and careful and—”</p><p>“Loving?” Jaskier asked, bluntly.  “Because I <em>love</em> you, you bloody idiot?  Could that be it?  The source of my tenderness and affection?”</p><p>“Why?” Geralt roared it at him, then repeated it through gritted teeth.  “Fuck, Jaskier, why?  I’m can’t feel anything like that for you, you know my affection is just a—a muscle memory, a kind of—of self-preservation, some kind of pitiful reflection, I can barely feel anything for you at all, let alone what I should.  You could do better than some hideous, feelingless mutant who can’t even complete a fucking simple hunt without putting you in danger, and you know it damn well!”</p><p>Jaskier took a deep breath to stop himself from boiling over with frustration and shouting back in Geralt’s face something incoherent and probably unhelpful, a deep breath that used his diaphragm and expanded his lungs, just as his tutors had taught him, held it in his lungs, and then blew it back out.  “Geralt,” he said, and reached out, dared to put his hands over Geralt’s clenched fists, resting them against his wrists.  The witcher was shaking slightly.  “Don’t you think that if you did slip up tonight—and again, I repeat I was in no danger, but all right, you feel you were sloppy, not up to your usual, quite incredible standard—but if you did slip up tonight, it might have something to do with how run down you are right now?”</p><p>Geralt actually flinched.  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he gritted out from between his teeth.</p><p>“You’re pale, even for you, you’ve lost weight,” Jaskier said.  “Quite horrifyingly dramatically, I might add, you’re all just—just muscle and bone.”  He squeezed his hands gently at Geralt’s waist, just above his hips, to illustrate his point.  “You’ve gone all . . . rangy.  You’re not sleeping well, or at all, unless I tire you out with sex first, hmm?  You’re not eating much at all.  You’re tired.”  Geralt was giving him a wary, bemused look.  Jaskier sighed with fond, soft, affectionate exasperation, dared to lift up one hand and cup it against the witcher’s stubbled cheek, rub his thumb there.  “Do you think I don’t notice these things?” he asked.  “I do pay attention, you know.”</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt said, shortly, turning his face away.  “It was . . . a long ride to get here.”  He swallowed, took a breath, then glared at him, flicked his eyes away again.  “But you were more tired than I was, Jask.  You were dead on your feet when we arrived.  I’m built for it.  It’s no excuse.”</p><p>“I was fine,” Jaskier said, as stoutly as he could manage.  “But the horses were knackered, certainly.  You’ll give them a few days of rest, won’t you?”</p><p>“Inn’s fucking expensive,” Geralt muttered.</p><p>“The innkeeper likes me,” Jaskier told him, turning Geralt’s head back toward him.  “I’ll play.”  He took Geralt’s wrists in his.  “Geralt, love, I know you’re utterly fantastic, but even you need rest sometimes, my darling.”</p><p>Geralt grunted, ducked his head down until his hair fell into his face.  “That doesn’t matter,” he muttered after a moment, pulling his hands away from Jaskier’s hold.</p><p>“Oh?” Jaskier asked, in his most acerbic and lofty tones, raising his eyebrows.  “It doesn’t? Doesn’t it?  What if you slow and get killed?  What would I do then?”  Geralt gave him a look like that was an incredibly stupid question, and Jaskier sighed.  He didn’t want to guilt Geralt even further, felt a pang of guilt, painful and tight, of his own, as he finished his point, ducking his head down and softening his face as he looked up into Geralt’s, putting both hands on Geralt’s shoulders.  “What if you slow and I get killed?”</p><p>Geralt’s hands were a vice grip on his shoulders a moment later, and he was snarling in Jaskier’s face.  “Why—why you even say that?” he demanded.  “You <em>will not</em>.  I will die first.  I would rather be torn to fucking pieces than let you come to harm.  You <em>know</em> that.  You <em>will not</em> die because you were at my side, I will—I will make you hate me, first!”</p><p>“Well, that definitely won’t be totally transparent now that you’ve told me your intentions,” Jaskier snapped back, and Geralt flushed hot and his fingers dug into Jaskier’s shoulders.</p><p>“Jaskier,” he growled, then, “Fuck.”</p><p>Jaskier felt his heart like a tight, twisted pain inside him, breaking for Geralt and the way he always jumped to destruction, of himself, most of all, as an answer.  He’d known, of course, that Geralt had tried that tactic with him before, but he’d thought they were past that.  “Don’t feel too badly,” he told him.  “I likely wouldn’t have fallen for it anyway.”</p><p>Geralt scowled at him, then went white to the lips and snatched his hands back, only to bring them back and rub carefully at a little red mark on Jaskier’s shoulder.  “You’re bruised,” he said, and he sounded stricken.</p><p>Only Geralt.  Only Geralt would sit there, with a drop of blood still idly oozing down his chest from his own open wounds, and worry about whether he’d held on hard enough that his thumb had dug in and slightly bruised Jaskier’s shoulder.  Jaskier reached up, took both of Geralt’s wrists in his hands again, and ducked his head down to press a soft kiss to the knuckles, then the thumb, of the one rubbing at his shoulder.  “It’s nothing, dearheart,” he murmured.  “I’m fine.  You know perfectly well I’ve hurt myself worse than that tripping over my own feet.  You didn’t hurt me.  Not at all.”</p><p>“But I,” Geralt rasped, looking away, still.</p><p>“But you nothing, it’s nothing, it’s a little mark that will be gone before the hour is up,” Jaskier said, kissing his knuckles again.  “Shush, love.”  He reached out, found Geralt’s cheek with his palm, tilted it up gently, until he stopped fighting it and raised his head, looked up at him.  “What is all this about?” he prompted as gently as he could.  “Really, now, Geralt?  I could barely get you on your feet in that damn cave, you could hardly put one foot in front of the other the whole way out of that stinking sewer, and if not for me leading you gods know where you would have ended up; you were walking as if you were in a dream, as if you were somewhere else, like you could barely see the walls before you.  And since we’ve been here, and you’ve finally come back to me, it’s been one thing after another.  You’ve been—you’ve been picking fights, is what you’ve been doing, as if you’d like to tear yourself to pieces but you’d rather I do it for you.  What the fuck happened to you down there?  You weren’t acting like this before.  Was it the hunt?  Was it that fucking siren’s spell?”</p><p>Geralt flinched.</p><p>“Ah,” Jaskier said.  “Gods.  Gods, I knew it!  I knew she’d done something to you.  Fuck!”</p><p>“It’s a siren’s natural defense mechanism, Jaskier, that’s all,” Geralt said, but his voice was a low, barely audible rasp.  “Can’t blame her for her nature.  She was only defending herself from a creature created to kill her kind.”</p><p>“Yes, I bloody well can blame her, and you know it,” Jaskier snapped.  “Plenty of sirens would have taken the offers you made her.  I’ve seen it.  She was just monstrous and murderous and bad-tempered and I will blame her for that the same I would any other foul murderous woman I happened to come across, thank you very much.  You gave her every chance.”</p><p>“I could have spared her,” Geralt mumbled.  “But she knew what I was.  She didn’t . . . trust me.”</p><p>“She made her decisions!” Jaskier said.  “She’d already murdered that knight, and at least five others, besides!  She chose to bewitch you.”  He scowled.  “That bitch,” he added for good measure.</p><p>Geralt sighed.</p><p>Jaskier pressed his hand closer against Geralt’s cheek, along his jaw.  “What did she do to you, love?” he asked, rubbing his thumb along the soft scratch of Geralt’s stubble.  “What did she make you see?”</p><p>“You know what sirens make you see, Jask,” Geralt said shortly, and turned away.</p><p>Yes, he did, because, as Geralt had said before, he was awfully susceptible to them, and had been caught by their song more than once.  They made you see what you most wanted.  They made you think that going to them would solve all your problems at once.</p><p>Jaskier didn’t pull his hand back.  “I don’t know what they made <em>you</em> see,” he said, quietly.  It had clearly cut Geralt deep, though, whatever it was.</p><p>“It’s so fucking stupid,” Geralt sighed, and rubbed his face with one hand, gently brushing Jaskier’s away, before he covered his face with both his own big, rough hands.  “So fucking stupid.”</p><p>“All right,” Jaskier said, though he was sure it wasn’t stupid in the slightest.  “But it can’t be any more stupid than the last vision a siren made <em>me</em> see.  I’ve got you beat all around on the stupid front, I’m afraid, Geralt.  I notice you don’t ask, which I must say is quite rude of you.”  He sniffed.  “Well, I’ll tell you, anyway.  I was lying on a riverbank in Touissant, surrounded by the loveliest young men and women you can imagine, all hanging on my every word, calling me Master Jaskier and asking me for my opinions on anything you wish to imagine, with silk cushions and hangings and fine wines, like that lovely sweet golden I had the last time I was there, though I was drinking Est Est, which, as you know, I prefer, and fruits and sweetmeats and all sorts of things of that nature, and,” he could feel his face heating now, but he plunged ahead recklessly, “and you were there, of course, and you were, ah,” he swallowed, “massaging my feet, actually, with what I can only describe as the most ridiculously besotted face I can imagine, mooning over me quite deliciously, I must say,” Geralt gave a little scoffing snort at that, and lowered his hands, so, emboldened, Jaskier rushed on to relate the rest of it, “and it might surprise you to hear that the Lady Yennefer was there, too, but not once I tell you that she was relating to anyone who would listen how, err, how good she had always thought I was for you, and how glad she was that we had gotten together at last.”</p><p>That at least won a smile from Geralt, nearly a laugh, and he rubbed at his mouth with one hand.  “Jaskier,” he said.  “Yen would have absolutely no problem killing you if you told her about that.”</p><p>“Well, yes, I am aware,” Jaskier said primly.  He knew what Geralt meant.  Yennefer could read it in his thoughts, of course, if she felt like it, but that wouldn’t offend her the way actually mentioning it aloud would.  “I don’t intend to speak of it to her.”  He sat back on his heels in the bed and clasped his hands in his lap, despite the fact that he was naked.  He was getting chilly, but that could wait.  “So?” he prompted.</p><p>Geralt gave him a look like he would really rather fight the siren all over again than speak of it, then sighed, reached out and tousled Jaskier’s hair, ran a rough, callused finger ever so gently over the freckles on Jaskier’s shoulder.  “Put some clothes on,” he said.  “You’ll get your death like this.”</p><p>“I’m tougher than that, thank you,” Jaskier said.  Trust Geralt to know he was getting cold, probably even before he himself knew, considering how well he could read his body.  “But, well, all right, you can talk while I dress.  Agreed?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but he didn’t complain as Jaskier scrambled off the bed and over to the packs they’d left.  He was planning on getting undressed again, of course, if Geralt was amenable, so he didn’t put on any smallclothes, just started with a pair of trousers.  He waved at Geralt to get started as he was pulling them on.</p><p>“Well?” he said.  “Start talking.”  He waved him on again, doing up the placket of his trousers.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said again, but then he loosely crossed his arms over his knees and looked down at them.  “And I once imagined you’d be put off easily,” he murmured.  “That you’d tire of me before the next town, and I’d be rid of you, just like that.”</p><p>“Haha,” Jaskier said.  “You didn’t know me yet, clearly.  Don’t think you can change the subject that easily.”</p><p>Geralt sighed.  “Hmm,” he said again.  Jaskier was about to urge him on again, and give him a bit of a scold for his trouble, too, when he blew his breath out again, long and low, and began to speak.  “I’ve been exposed to siren song a thousand times,” he said, his raspy voice low and sharp, “and I can count on one hand the number of times it’s taken me as hard as it did tonight.  I—” he drew another low, sharp, breath, and blew it out.  “I feel like the worst kind of a fool.  But.”  He closed his eyes, tilted his head back.  Jaskier stopped mid-movement and just looked at him there, for a moment, at the line of his strong throat, exposed to the room, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his damp, slowly drying, clean hair wisped gently along his face, clinging to his shoulder and one cheek.  He wondered if he’d ever truly understand how much trust it took for Geralt to sit with him like that, bare throat exposed to the room, eyes closed, even his legs parted and open where he rested his arms on his knees.  “You asked,” Geralt said, roughly.</p><p>“I did,” Jaskier replied softly.</p><p>Geralt blew out his breath again.  There was a moment of silence.  “I was at Kaer Morhen,” he said, then, and his voice came out of him groaning like an aged door, like he hadn’t spoken a word in years, raspy and as gravelly as a bad road.  “But it was . . .” he sighed, opened his eyes again.  “It was Kaer Morhen as I’ve never known it.”</p><p>“Oh?” Jaskier asked, barely more than a whisper, hardly daring to move from where he stood.  He felt frozen in place.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, eyes distant now, as if looking very far away.  “Whole and unbroken, as if before the pogrom.  I never knew it that way.”  He took a breath.  “As if perhaps people had never forgotten their use for us.”  Jaskier felt something in his chest seize and tighten painfully, a sudden sharp pang, as Geralt blew the breath he had taken back out, slowly.  “Just my imagination, of course,” Geralt muttered.  “I wouldn’t know what it was like.  Everyone was there, witchers I barely remember.”  He sat up a bit, spoke better pitched for Jaskier to hear.  “I was there; I was . . . in bed with Yen.”  Jaskier had just enough time for the slightest pang of jealousy, before Geralt continued, and said, “We were both asleep, I suppose it was, when you came in.”</p><p>Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek to avoid saying anything, chewed forcefully on his bottom lip.  When he had come in?  So he had been there?  He had <em>been there</em>.  He had been there in Geralt’s fantasy!  He told himself firmly not to be ridiculous, not to make a ridiculous production of his sudden elation or his earlier doubt, not to make Geralt any more self-conscious than he already was.  Being exposed to this dream had been wrenchingly painful for Geralt, clearly.  He had to be sensitive.</p><p>But Goddess, gods, he had been there.  Geralt had dreamed of him.</p><p>“I woke up . . .” Geralt said, a little vaguely.  “I was . . . I was glad to see you; it had been a long time, you had been performing in Maribor, and working your way back up north, and I knew that, somehow, and I’d expected you but not for at least another month; you teased me when I didn’t want to get out of bed, so I got up and kissed you to get you to stop, I . . .” he looked away, slightly “. . . had your doublet loose and my hands down your trousers by the time you remembered that Vesemir had wanted to see me.  There was a child . . . I was supposed to help with training?  I suppose there were many children, but . . . .”  He rubbed his hands over his face again, pushed one of them back into his hair, tugging on it in what looked like irritated confusion.  “I felt like it could have been—maybe it was my fucking child of fucking destiny.  Why I’d dream about that, I don’t fucking know.  You teased me about crushing the velvet and silk of your hat, and so I straightened it out and put it back on your head and kissed your throat and told you to wash the dust of travel off, and Yen was waking up around then, or at least pretending to wake up and joining the conversation, and of course she told me I should go fulfill my obligations, and so I got my clothes on and left you collapsing dramatically on the bed.  Telling her you would never move again and her shoving your shoulder with her foot.  Probably about to call water from the pitcher over the top of your head in another moment, if I know Yen.  And I—opened the door, and I realized the whole of it was false.”  He looked down.  “Too many people,” he mumbled.  “Too many witchers.  Everyone was alive.  The battlements weren’t in ruins.  You were laughing.  I—” he broke off, and stared down at his hand, forming it into a fist against his knee.</p><p>Jaskier took a breath, tried to remember how to breathe, had to blink stinging tears rapidly out of his eyes, and hid them by turning to their packs to find himself a shirt.  He took one deep breath, then another, refusing to allow his voice to wobble because of how deeply that vision of Geralt’s, so simple, so real, had touched him, had twisted up his heart and left it aching.  He blinked back more stinging in his eyes and took another deep breath, then managed, fairly lightly, “So your fondest wish is for me and Yennefer to get along?  I’m afraid you’ll be waiting a long time for that wish to come true.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.  “Ha.  No.  Not—not that.”  His voice broke, got scratchy in the middle.</p><p>Melitele, Geralt’s voice breaking like that.  Jaskier’s eyes strung worse, and under the cover of digging out a shirt, an older, well-washed, buttery-soft shirt of his, old and comfortable and one of the plainest things he owned, he rubbed at them furiously.  It was just that—it was just that sometimes, even now, he wasn’t certain what he meant to Geralt, and he’d been convinced, there for a moment, that he was to be reminded that he was but a pale shadow of Yennefer, helplessly outshone by her place in Geralt’s affections.  He didn’t want to make what Geralt had said about him, or his feelings—he wanted rather desperately to talk about Geralt’s, to help him deal with them if at all he could—but Geralt’s feelings had made Jaskier feel . . . feel special.  Special to—to Geralt, in a way he rarely if ever got to feel, and for a moment all he could do was hug the shirt to his chest and try to steady himself, before he finally got himself back together and pulled the shirt over his head.  He didn’t bother to do up the laces, but he did take several more deep breaths and made sure to compose himself before he turned back around.  He wanted to make Geralt feel just as special to him.  He just didn’t quite know how.  “Geralt,” he started.  “Love . . . .”</p><p>Geralt’s head was in his hands again.  “It’s stupid,” he said.  “It’s so fucking stupid.”  He took in a deep, ragged, tearing breath.  “I know it’s so <em>fucking</em> stupid,” he said, louder.</p><p>“It’s not stupid,” Jaskier said, and his voice came out soft, halting and thick and reedy with emotion.  He took another breath and firmed it with determination.  “It’s not stupid,” he said more clearly, and resolutely.</p><p>“I can’t have it,” Geralt growled, raising his head and leaning in toward him.  “It’s never been like that; nothing ever has.  So, pray tell me, wise philosopher, how is it not stupid?”</p><p>“Well, no, it’s never so simple as all that,” Jaskier said.  “Is it?  And, tragic as it is, nothing will bring back the dead.  And goddess only knows when Yennefer will appear again as if out of the ether.  But you have <em>me</em>, at least.”</p><p>Geralt just stared at him, a moment.  He looked stricken.  His throat worked.  Jaskier refused to back down, though he desperately wanted to bite his bottom lip.  He took a breath to banish the urge and put his hands on his hips.</p><p>Geralt’s throat worked again, and he blinked, once, twice, eyelashes fluttering down over his eyes, before he moistened his lips and looked at him again.  He swallowed hard, one more time.  “Do I have you, Jaskier?” he asked, his voice deep and low.</p><p>“Always, my love,” Jaskier said, at once, and it came out of him wet and thick, breaking embarrassingly.   His instincts screamed at him to look away from the intensity of the moment, to say something to break the tension, to lighten things, but he refused to let them despite the anxious watering of his mouth, the thundering of his heart, the clenching tightness of his throat, the tight queasiness of his stomach.  “You’ve always had me,” he said instead, not looking away from Geralt’s eyes, and he meant it.  Geralt was looking at him so intently now, and he couldn’t read it, and Jaskier felt himself flushing, and he broke, looked away, tried a little laugh.  “Even when you didn’t want me,” he said, lightly.</p><p>Geralt didn’t respond right away, even though Jaskier could still feel his eyes on him, and there was a moment of aching, painful silence, so tense and so penetrating and so fraught that Jaskier felt his skin heating and prickling like beside a fire, and he did bite his bottom lip.</p><p>“Why?” Geralt finally said, and it seemed like it was an effort, his voice deep and grating and rough, almost tortured.  “I don’t understand why.”</p><p>Jaskier sighed, crossed the room, and pulled the chair with the medical supplies on it closer as he got back onto the bed, crawling his way in between Geralt’s legs, before he sat there cross-legged, close enough to him to feel the warmth he exuded, and took both his wrists in his own, rubbing his thumbs over Geralt’s slow, slow pulse.  Geralt let him, so he leaned forward, rested his forehead against Geralt’s, looked into his face, and smiled.  Geralt’s forehead felt so warm against his own.  He could feel his breath.  “I know,” he said.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but it was very scratchy and thready, rough.</p><p>“You’ve never understood,” Jaskier added.  “But here I am, all the same.”  He slid his hands up over Geralt’s bare, muscular arms, up over his shoulders, linked his arms around his neck, not pulling away.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, again.  He blinked, licked his bottom lip, leaned in toward Jaskier a little, into his hold.  It made Jaskier feel very warm.  “Here you are.”</p><p>“Can you believe in me at all, my sweet?” Jaskier asked, letting his lips brush against Geralt’s, once, twice.  He let his eyes slip closed, took a breath, teased his hands gently through Geralt’s hair.  “Or is it too much?”</p><p>Geralt sighed, breathed out.  When Jaskier opened his eyes again, he was looking right at him, but his face had softened, even though his jaw clenched before he spoke again.  “I don’t . . . know how to do that,” he said roughly, hoarsely.  “Jask, I—I don’t, I—”</p><p>“All right,” Jaskier said.  He brought his hands back around, stroked his hands over Geralt’s cheeks, against his jaw.  “It’s all right.  It’s all right.  I know.”</p><p>Geralt’s fists clenched, his shoulders bunched, and he turned his face away.  “It’s <em>not</em> all right,” he said.  “I’m failing you . . . again.  You deserve . . . .”</p><p>“Dearheart, please shut up about what I deserve,” Jaskier said.  “I mean it.”</p><p>Geralt blinked at him, surprise clearly written on his face.</p><p>“I know you’re very fond of me,” Jaskier said, toying idly with the witcher’s medallion around Geralt’s neck, still getting a shivery thrill that Geralt allowed it, “and so you have a very flattering idea of what I should expect as my due, but you know a great many people wouldn’t agree with you on that point.  I’m not always the most popular of fellows anyway.  You’ve said it yourself, you know.  Irritating, irreverent, loud, never shutting up . . . singing pointed songs in the wrong places at the right times, sleeping with other people’s wives, or husbands, and all that.  A lot of people wouldn’t hesitate to string me up, let alone relish my, ah, my romantic troubles.”</p><p>Geralt scowled.  “I know I’m unpleasant to you,” he muttered.  “But don’t lump me in with . . .”  He sighed, shook his head, and finally unclenched his fists, reaching out instead and laying his hands almost hesitantly on Jaskier’s waist.  Jaskier shivered pleasantly at the touch of his warm, broad hands, even through the fabric of the shirt.  “Hmm,” he said, then, and finally, heavily, haltingly, “You don’t deserve that.”</p><p>“Thank you, love,” Jaskier said, with a fond smile he couldn’t hide, biting his lip against a chuckle in case Geralt took it the wrong way.  He dropped the silvery embossed circle of Geralt’s medallion and smoothed it out over his chest, with his thumbs along the chain.  “You are very tolerant.”</p><p>Geralt scowled a little more.  “Hmm,” he said, then, “Wouldn’t put it like that.”</p><p>“And what would you put it like?” Jaskier asked, smiling up at him, through his eyelashes, just for the flirtiness of it.  Geralt squeezed at his waist with a grunt, but he was smiling a little.</p><p>“Been around the block with you too many times for you to play the coquette now, Jaskier,” he said, but he leaned forward and brushed their noses together, all the same.</p><p>Jaskier grinned.  “Ah, but don’t I always play the coquette for you, Geralt, my love?” he said, leaned in, and brushed his lips against Geralt’s in a soft, teasing kiss, dragging his mouth gently along Geralt’s, a brush of fire and pleasure for them both.  He could feel the tension of pleasure go through Geralt’s body against his, the tension in his back, the flex and slight arch and slight lean into it, even as he pulled away.  Geralt grunted, and his fingers dug gently, deliciously, into Jaskier’s sides, against his hips.  Jaskier wriggled against him, to suggest that he’d like a little more of that, and Geralt squeezed at his sides gently.  His broad hands were so big, so strong, so warm, and Jaskier never felt like he ever got enough of them on him to suit him.</p><p>“Hmm,” he said, and kissed him again, a gentle, careful brush of his lips over Jaskier’s, lingering over his bottom lip, kissing him like he was fragile and delicate, with an impossible, careful sweetness that made Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut all of their own accord.  When he blinked them open again on a pleasurable sigh, Geralt’s were still closed, and he hadn’t pulled back much at all, so that their lips were still mostly touching.  Geralt sighed, and blew his breath out, and pulled away, letting their foreheads brush once more.  Jaskier felt warm and delightfully shivery all over, like every inch of his skin had come alive.</p><p>“So,” he said, unable to keep from smiling, beaming up at Geralt.  “What would you put it like?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, and he looked away.  “Tolerant makes it sound like . . . like I don’t like you,” he said, finally, after a long moment.  “You’re the one who’s tolerant.  Of.  Me—my—my inhumanity.  My . . . weaknesses.”</p><p>“Oh, my darling love,” Jaskier said, in a rush of warm, heady emotion, with a twinge of a bittersweet pain in his chest, pulling tight.  He reached out, ran a finger along Geralt’s jaw.  “I wouldn’t put it like that.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt huffed, looking down and away still.</p><p>“It makes it sound like I don’t like you,” Jaskier said, tenderly, tilting Geralt’s face up toward him with gentle pressure from three of his fingers on his jaw, smiling at him.  “And I do, you know that.  Very much.”</p><p>Geralt started to flush at that, but at least he didn’t pull away.</p><p>“Besides,” Jaskier said, warming to his theme, grinning, knowing his cheeks were flushing, his eyes sparkling, “you do <em>tolerate </em>me, my dearest.  You tolerate me doing scales for hours at a time, or composing in snatches of song so that you can never settle into it and tune it out, or practicing the same song over and over and over again on the road.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, the sort that meant it was true, but he’d rather not say it.</p><p>“You tolerate me complaining about not getting a warm bath, or demanding one,” Jaskier said, warming to his theme, “you tolerate me groaning about getting up on the morning on a cold day, or putting my cold feet against your legs, come to that.  You tolerate the fact that I’m slower than you, and I can’t quite keep up, you tolerate the fact that I’m useless in a fight, given to flights of fancy, unable to shut up even when I’m not helping myself by talking, that I have to put my oar into a conversation and that I can’t see a situation pass by without jumping right in the middle of it.  You tolerate my flirtations and my affairs, my fondness for alcohol and fine clothes, and my complaining about ruined doublets and boots for hours at a time.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt said, sounding pained, which probably meant that he agreed with all that, but he cared about Jaskier and didn’t want to say that.</p><p>“I provide compensations, though,” Jaskier said, cheerfully.  “Don’t I?”  He ran a hand along Geralt’s jaw and up, back into his hair, and kissed him again, pressing his open mouth carefully against Geralt’s, starting the kiss sweet and soft but thorough and deepening it rapidly.</p><p>Geralt kissed him back, deeply and completely, his hands sliding around and up Jaskier’s back to clutch at his shoulders, mouth hot and wet and powerful on Jaskier’s, but then he pulled back with a gasping intake of breath, nuzzled damp lips, panting warm against his skin, down his jaw, before he kissed his ear and pulled back just enough to speak against his cheek, “It’s not like that, Jask.  I don’t like it when you . . . when you sell yourself short, or act like . . . like that—like that’s—like sex is all there is between us.”</p><p>“Thank you, love,” Jaskier said, softly, feeling himself go warm all over again.  He had to fight back his instinct to make a joke of it, knowing that would hurt Geralt immeasurably just now.  Instead, he closed his eyes, sighed himself, softly, and leaned in to rest his face against Geralt’s in return, running his hands up into his hair, massaging at his scalp, enjoying the fall of it over his wrists and fingers.  “You must know that I feel very deeply for you.  I’ve said it often enough, I think, how I adore you.  But how about once more?  For I do adore you, Geralt.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but his arms also tightened around Jaskier’s back, bringing him in toward him in a gentle hold that felt incredibly protective and made Jaskier feel safe and wanted.  As much as he would have liked to nestle into that hold, push Geralt onto his back, and kiss him wordless and breathless and dazed, make good on the promise of the evening, he didn’t, just pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek, the hinge of his jaw, and dropped one on his shoulder, scratching and rubbing his hands gently at the base of Geralt’s skull, until Geralt sighed and shivered pleasurably, before he pulled back and opened his eyes.</p><p>“Now,” he said, still holding his hands curled gently into Geralt’s hair, against the back of his neck, “you roll over, all right?  And let me finish what I started.  And once we’ve gotten your bumps and gashes and scrapes all sorted out, we can move onto more exciting parts of the evening.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, and his eyes flicked downward, flatteringly, to Jaskier’s lips, even before they glanced down toward his groin, but then he moved to turn over, and Jaskier scooted back, got out of the bed to get more hot water and rinse his hands in it and the vodka again.  Geralt was lying with his head pillowed on one arm and his eyes closed when he got back, towel stretched out under him.</p><p>“Here I am, love,” Jaskier said, giving him a warning, so he wouldn’t be startled or react violently, just in case, though Geralt could almost always track Jaskier by his heartbeat, as he sat down on the bed beside him.  Geralt sighed softly, tilted himself slightly to give Jaskier better access to his back, so Jaskier patted his shoulder gently.  Geralt sighed again, very softly.  He gave Geralt’s injuries another rinse of vodka and went back to his task of stitching them up.  Geralt grunted just a little, but didn’t flinch or complain, as Jaskier finished with the worst of them.  “Now, stay there,” Jaskier directed, and he got up to fetch the healing salve Geralt preferred for open wounds and gashes from their packs.  Geralt grunted again, but he didn’t move.  His eyes fluttered open when Jaskier sat down beside him on the bed, then closed again as he sighed.</p><p>Jaskier stroked his fingers gently over his shoulder, gathered up his hair in his hand and laid it to the side on the pillow so it wouldn’t stick to the salve, caressed the back of his neck.  Geralt shuddered under him, released a little breath against the pillow, so Jaskier couldn’t quite resist deliberately stroking one finger down over the nape of his neck, over the chain of his medallion and down onto the knob of his spine.  It made Geralt shiver again, and huff out his breath into the pillow, form one hand into a loose fist against the sheet.  Jaskier circled his finger around the bone of Geralt’s spine, down over the muscle of his shoulder, then back up to his neck, up behind his ear, enjoying how Geralt shivered and his breathing went all uneven, then used the backs of his fingers to stroke down his nape again and reached down to open the tub of salve.</p><p>According to Geralt, who had once explained to Jaskier everything in this salve and how he made it in exhaustive detail as he tended to a nasty rake of claws across Jaskier’s side, while he’d been whimpering and trying desperately not to clutch at Geralt like a frightened child or burst into humiliating tears, he made this salve from aloe when he could get it, with sweet almond oil, beeswax, distilled rosewater, frankincense and myrrh, banyan leaves and juice (apparently a type of fig with giant vines, that Geralt had described at some length, probably to calm Jaskier down by capturing his imagination), red sandalwood, white sandalwood, poplar sap and buds, three-seven root, whatever that was, hypericum (which was apparently the herb Jaskier knew as amber touch-and-heal), plantain and mullein leaves, calendula, yarrow, meadowsweet, birch buds and bark, oleander spurge, arnica, lavender, rosemary, balm, honey, woundwort, betony, boiled celandine and diluted centipede venom, and dandelion.  Geralt had finished by saying that he was sure Jaskier wouldn’t remember any of that, but Jaskier was good at memorizing long lists, amongst other things (song lyrics, poetry, fingerings and lute music, forms of address, heraldry, the favorite foods and colors of various lovers, what have you).  Jaskier had just made a joke about his namesake being included.  It definitely smelled awfully nice, much nicer than most of Geralt’s salves, like sweet incense and aromatic wood, herbs and sweet flowers, like a meadow around a temple.  Jaskier definitely appreciated that, for Geralt’s sake even more than for his own.  He was still baffled that Geralt took the time to make such a complicated salve and then most of the time when he was hurt took a potion that looked like black sludge or the one, Swallow, that looked like fire, or poured the second all over the wound so that it bubbled and smoked in a frightening way.</p><p>Not that he wasn’t grateful, for at least this salve worked on him as well, the fragile human, without poisoning him.  The first time he’d been badly hurt at Geralt’s side, Geralt had diluted Swallow and given it to him, then poured it on the wound, and it had hurt like bloody fire, worse than the wound itself, and Geralt’s stricken face as Jaskier screamed and sobbed and cried out in his arms had almost been worse than that.</p><p>Jaskier scooped out a good portion of the creamy salve and began to rub it over Geralt’s wounds, starting with the ones he’d stitched closed and moving onto the others.  Geralt sighed, and his head shifted against his arms, as he moved into a more comfortable position.</p><p>“This smells lovely, you know that?” Jaskier said conversationally, spreading more of it onto Geralt’s back.  It was gently warming, and made his fingers tingle just a bit.  He’d asked Geralt, and he’d said it was the diluted venom that did that.  “Much better than that sewer.  You’re going to smell delicious.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, shifting again, then, “it’s a waste of that salve.  It’s expensive to make.  The wounds will heal on their own.”</p><p>“Hmph,” Jaskier said.  “And perhaps I want to help them along?”  He knew very well, from personal experience, that one of the best things about the salve was how well it dulled the pain, especially welcome when the injuries were what Geralt saw as minor in the extreme, too minor to take a pain-relieving draught.  If they did enjoy each other that night, he didn’t want Geralt to be in pain from the hunt, during.  “Ever think of that?”  He threw one leg over Geralt’s, straddling his rather incredible arse so that he could reach around and over his back better.</p><p>“Hmmph,” Geralt grunted, but he also didn’t argue or twist away.</p><p>“That’s a good boy,” Jaskier said, half fondly, half just to be a little prick.</p><p>“Don’t push it,” Geralt muttered, and Jaskier bit his lip, chuckling.</p><p>“All right, love, I won’t,” he said.  “Though I thought you liked it when I <em>pushed</em> it a little.”  He rolled his hips, lewd and obvious, up against the crack of Geralt’s arse, as he said it, just so that he’d be certain to get the picture.</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.</p><p>“I don’t know why you insist growling my name like that, like some matron chaperoning a dance,” Jaskier said.  “When I know you can be just as naughty as I can.”  He trailed teasing fingers down over Geralt’s bare hip, along his thigh.  “My ravenous wolf, that’s what you are.”</p><p>Geralt shifted against the bed as if he were getting a bit uncomfortable around the groin area.  “Jaskier,” he grunted, a bit more breathily.</p><p>“Yes, love?” Jaskier asked sweetly, still leaning up and in to dab more salve over Geralt’s injuries.  “Do you want to turn over?”</p><p>“Fuck,” Geralt mumbled, into the pillow.</p><p>“Is that what you want?” Jaskier asked in his most honeyed tone, leaning forward over Geralt’s back to press a soft kiss to the back of Geralt’s neck.  He was rewarded by a shiver that went through Geralt’s entire body, all the way down to past his thighs where Jaskier was straddling them, and a warm flush beneath his lips.  Geralt grunted again.  Jaskier patted his hip and straightened back up.  “Well, you’ll just have to wait,” he said cheerfully.  “Got to make sure you’re nicely bandaged up first.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt groaned, turning his head to one side and peering up at him with one eye, his hair falling forward into his face.  He looked flushed, disgruntled, and a little flustered.  Jaskier smiled tenderly down at him, leaning forward again to brush his hair carefully back out of his face and press a kiss to his forehead, then his cheek against Geralt’s skin there.</p><p>“Shh,” he said.  “I’ll make it worth the wait, I promise.  I just want to be certain you’re well looked after first, all right?  Let me?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, in the noncommittal way that meant he was agreeing without agreeing.</p><p>“Hmm,” Jaskier parroted back at him, teasingly, and straightened back up.  He didn’t hurry through his task, either, carefully dabbing the sweet-smelling salve over the open wounds he hadn’t bothered to sew up, into Geralt’s skin around them, before he reached for his pile of clean linen and folded it into a pad, pressing it carefully against Geralt’s back.  That done, he held it there and carefully coaxed him to roll over onto his back.  Geralt did, huffing a little as he settled, uncomfortably, medallion caught up around his shoulder.  “Sore?” Jaskier asked sympathetically.  Geralt just looked at him, a little flushed, his eyes a little wide.  Jaskier pointedly didn’t cast a glance down at his cock, though he was sure Geralt was more than a little hard.  “Hmm,” Jaskier said, started to clean up the wounds on his front.  None of those particularly looked like they needed stitches, so as soon as he felt he was done, he patted Geralt dry with the towel and began dabbing the salve carefully over them, too.</p><p>“You don’t have to be so gentle,” Geralt muttered after a moment, looking down at Jaskier, gently touching his wrist with his rough, callused fingers.  “I can do that.”</p><p>“Oh, please, give me something to do,” Jaskier told him.  “I hate to sit idly by while you tend to your own wounds, it makes me feel useless and gives me a squirmy feeling in my stomach.  You stay right there.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, frowning.</p><p>“Stop that,” Jaskier told him.  “I mean it.”  He could see that Geralt was half hard, now that he did look, but he didn’t have much intention of doing anything about it just yet.  Geralt flushed and turned away when he saw Jaskier’s eyes on his cock.  He could be so adorably modest at times.  Of course, there was no way he could hide that thing.  Like a bloody tentpole down his trousers.  Goddess, but Jaskier loved Geralt’s cock.  Of course, if Geralt was being shy, it was also less likely that he’d get up out of the bed, which was a nice bonus.  He leaned in, pushed himself up the bed a little closer between Geralt’s legs, intent on his task as Geralt flushed even deeper and he finished salving up his wounds, then pressed another pad of linen over them.  It was a bit tricky to do the bandaging, on both Geralt’s back and his front—he had to get Geralt sitting up, and get him to hold the bandages at his shoulder as he wrapped them around him, under his impressive pectorals and around his ribs, up over his shoulder, until he was certain they would stay.  That done, he kissed Geralt’s jaw, adjusted his medallion until it hung properly, trailed his fingertips gently down over his abdomen, and reached for his thigh as Geralt shivered.</p><p>He was extra generous with the salve over this wound; it was, after all, the deepest and most serious, still oozing a bit of blood around the stitches, but it was much easier to bandage.</p><p>“There,” Jaskier said, finally, tying it off the linen.  He reached for the flask of vodka and pushed it into Geralt’s hand.  “You finish that off.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, and didn’t need further urging, apparently, for he tipped back his head and finished it off in three swallows or so, or most of it, since he held it out to Jaskier with a cock of his head after, like he was offering what was left.</p><p>“That’s it, dearest,” Jaskier said, “thank you,” drumming his fingers on his own thigh after reclaiming the flask and putting it on the chair.  “Hungry at all?”</p><p>Geralt turned his eyes on him somewhat desperately.  “Jask . . .” he said.</p><p>Jaskier chuckled.  “Ah, hungry for cock instead, is that it, big boy?” he asked.</p><p>Geralt’s brows drew together, and he growled at him.  “Jaskier,” he said, in a menacing tone that had probably had village headmen wetting themselves in the past.</p><p>“What?” Jaskier laughed.  He shook his finger at him.  “Now, Geralt.  If you want it, there’s no sense pretending that you don’t.”</p><p>Geralt gave an abortive little movement, as if he’d surge toward him, then sank back in the bed.  He looked torn.  Jaskier leaned in, put his hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm, and leaned in.  He made his intentions obvious, plain, and when Geralt didn’t pull back or lean away, only leaned in toward him, he kissed him, gentle, slow and light, licking and lingering over his lips, not pushing deeper.  Geralt groaned low in his throat, grasped at Jaskier’s waist again.</p><p>“Just be patient, my love,” Jaskier told him, and kissed the side of his mouth, his noise, his brow.  “Just be patient and let me get things sorted, and then I promise you will know pleasure beyond your wildest dreams.  I will make you see stars, I will make you see the flowers of paradise, just wait for me, lovely.”</p><p>Geralt grunted and grumbled unhappily, but he let Jaskier reach over him and fluff up the pillows, and he lay down when Jaskier pushed at him.  He pulled the blankets up over Geralt’s nude body, then went and opened the door, knocked on the wall until he got the attention of a maid down the passageway.  He spoke softly, mentioning to her that they’d had a bath and they’d like the tub removed.  It wasn’t long before the innkeep’s strapping son came back, and Jaskier flirted with him gently and kindly, as one did with village innocents, and tipped him ridiculously, then shut the door behind him.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said from the bed, propping himself up on one elbow.  “Flirting with him, Jask?”</p><p>“Well, he liked it,” Jaskier said.  “He got all pink, didn’t you notice?  Adorable, really, with his freckles.  Don’t turn that disapproving gaze on me, Geralt.  It’s good for people.  One of my roles in society.”</p><p>Geralt narrowed his eyes at him.  “Hmm,” he said.</p><p>“You remind people of dangers they’d like to forget, and that they have recourse when the world becomes too frightening,” Jaskier said.  “While one of a traveling bard’s functions is to shake up staid village rules, lives, and expectations.  And allow young men and women of broader persuasions to realize their desires in safety.  I’m flamboyant and different and strange and they’ll likely never see me again.  They can be a different person with me.  This is why religious fanatics and cult leaders, as well as controlling parents and iron-fisted nobles of all stripes, hate wandering minstrels, as you may have noticed, my love.  We open minds.”</p><p>Geralt cracked a little twitch of a smile at that.  “It’s not the caterwauling, then,” he said.</p><p>Jaskier staggered back dramatically, throwing a hand to his chest.  “Cut to the quick,” he said, and then straightened back up.  “And, well, probably that too.”  He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head at Geralt.  “Do you want the aforementioned pleasures of the flowers of paradise or not, witcher?  Because insulting my music is not how to go about it.”</p><p>“Never stopped you before,” Geralt said.</p><p>Jaskier laughed.  “Honestly, my love,” he said fondly, shaking his head at him.  “What am I going to do with you?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, raising his eyebrows, and shifting a bit against the bed.  Jaskier knew what <em>that</em> meant.</p><p>“Yes, well, my dear,” he said.  “How would you like it?”</p><p>Geralt just looked down, hunching his shoulders a little, then said, “Hmm,” rather gruffly and even softly, for him.  His cheeks were a little bit flushed.</p><p>Jaskier <em>thought</em> he knew what that meant, but he wasn’t quite certain.  He didn’t like to presume, with things like this.  It was difficult to get actual words out of Geralt, to get him to ask for what he wanted, but Jaskier definitely preferred to hear it from his lips in actuality before he did a great deal.  He purposefully got it wrong, trying to push Geralt to verbalize what he thought he might want instead.  “I could get on my back for you,” he offered, “Spread my thighs, let you bite at my neck and my shoulders, bruise my hips and pull my hair?  Hmm?  Would you like that?  Like to push me around a bit tonight?”</p><p>Geralt flushed darker and hunched his shoulders a little more, looked away, rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand.</p><p>“Not that, eh?” Jaskier asked.  “Geralt, love, talk to me.”</p><p>“You know what I want,” Geralt muttered.  “You’re just—you’re—you’re just making it difficult.”</p><p>Jaskier chuckled a little.  “Not just to torture you, my sweet,” he said.  “I just like to hear it from you, first.  I like to know for certain.  I’d hate to do something you wouldn’t like, or to have you simply enduring my attentions, waiting for something better.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, then, “Hardly likely.”  His voice deepened, roughened, got husky and inviting, raspy with want.  Need.  Desire.  It was heady just to hear it, went straight to Jaskier’s cock.  “I’m going to like it, lark.  You could do anything you wanted.”</p><p>“And is that what you want?” Jaskier asked, letting his voice go lower, too, softer, get a little husky.  He crossed the room, sat beside Geralt on the bed again, sliding in until his side was against Geralt’s knee.  Like that, he could feel his warmth along his entire body.  “Anything I wanted?”</p><p>Geralt swallowed.  “Fuck,” he said, then, flushing red and hot and blotchy all over his shoulders and chest and down his back, “Yes.”</p><p>“Generous of you, dearheart,” Jaskier said, gently.  He reached out, ran his fingertips up along Geralt’s throat, cupped his chin gently with his hand, turning it back toward him, before holding him there with fingertips soft on his chin and jaw.  “Do you want to be the one lying back with his thighs spread, bitten and bruised, with his hair tugged and pulled?  Do you want me to make you mine in every way I can, Geralt?”</p><p>Geralt’s eyes went wide and dark and dilated and fixed on him, and his lips parted.  Jaskier slid his hand back from his jaw into his hair, and pulled on it gently, and Geralt moaned, arched his back.  Goddess, but the way he looked, arching his back like that, the sinful grace in it despite his size, his musculature—Jaskier had always thought it was enough to bring a man to tears.  It never failed to astonish him, Geralt’s conviction that he was an ugly, hideous thing, while Jaskier felt his hands going sweaty and nervous just with the pure force of Geralt’s exotic, extravagant beauty, even now when they had been together, touched each other all over, again and again and again.</p><p>“Aloud, my love,” Jaskier urged.  “Is that what you would like?”</p><p>Geralt groaned, almost a whimper, low and thick in his throat, far back, a needy noise that matched the needy roll of his hips toward Jaskier.  He didn’t push, though, didn’t reach out, his passivity seeming to confirm Jaskier’s suspicions that Geralt would really rather not make the decisions that night.  He leaned forward, pressed a warm, gentle, damply wet kiss to Geralt’s throat, relishing the way he shuddered and moaned and swayed forward, pushing in against him.</p><p>“Tell me,” Jaskier murmured, licking at the sweat on Geralt’s throat, tasting his skin, warm and salty bitter, the strange soft hint of ozone that seemed to infuse his skin, like the earth after rain had merged with his flesh.  “Tell me what you want.  Tell me what you need.”</p><p>“I need . . .” Geralt started, his voice so rough it was barely understandable, yearning and thick, but then he trailed off.</p><p>Jaskier bit lightly at his throat, his jaw, pulled at his hair, then reached up with his other hand and squeezed it, hard, at the back of Geralt’s neck, curling his fingers into the chain of his medallion as he squeezed at the muscle, feeling him going loose and lax, his muscles going soft, leaning into Jaskier hard, with a great deal of his considerable weight.  Jaskier didn’t allow himself to so much as sway under it.  He could support Geralt.  He made sure of that.</p><p>“You can have whatever you wish,” he murmured softly against Geralt’s throat, “as long as you only ask for it.”</p><p>Geralt made an unhappy sort of moaning, whimpering noise, deep down in his chest.  “Jask, please,” he said, desperately.</p><p>“Do you want me to take it easy on you?” Jaskier asked in a murmur, pressing a gentle kiss against his jaw now.</p><p>Geralt groaned, made a desperate noise like he’d been pushed past his limit.  “No!” he said, sounding wild.  “I need you—I don’t want you to be gentle, or—or easy, I want you to—do what you will with me, give me what I deserve, take me hard, or make it hurt, don’t hold yourself back.  I—”</p><p>“Shh, shh,” Jaskier said, skimming his fingers gently over Geralt’s lips.  He mouthed softly at them, opened his mouth, so Jaskier stroked one finger, then the next, over his tongue, let him take them into the wet heat of his mouth and suck.  “I could, you know, take it easy and slow, make you wait for it, worship you and lavish praise on your lovely body, until you thought you would weep with it, make you hold off from your peak as gently as I know how, take you slow and gentle until you fell apart in my arms.  What if I decided I wanted that?  What if I decided that is precisely what you deserve?  Worship and slow pleasure?”</p><p>Geralt shuddered, whimpered against his fingers, gave Jaskier a desperate look even as saliva began to pool at one corner of his lips, run sloppily down over his chin.  Jaskier smiled, rubbed his hand against Geralt’s scalp, along the base of his skull, gentle behind his ear and in his hair, before he pulled at those long white locks again.  Geralt sighed, arched his neck back, exposing his throat, the lovely man, lapped and sucked needily at his fingers, making heat shiver through all of Jaskier’s body.</p><p>“But no,” he told him.  “You were so very good for me, lovely, you told me what you’re wanting.  I won’t put you through something so terribly difficult.  I’ll give you what you want.”</p><p>Geralt pulled back just enough to whisper against the pads of Jaskier’s fingers, wet and humid against his skin.  “You will?” he rasped, a hopeful, hoarse whisper of a noise.</p><p>“Of course I will,” Jaskier said, pressing another kiss to his jaw, pressing close until his nose was close against Geralt’s cheek, cupping the back of Geralt’s head firmly, swallowing against his own emotion.  “What you deserve, my love, is whatever you desire.”</p><p>Geralt gulped, hard, and Jaskier pulled away, just enough to stroke his jaw, down his throat, to his shoulders, caress over them, smoothing his hands over the vast, strong muscle, careful over the bandage not to tug on it, and then held him there at his shoulders with both hands.</p><p>“Now,” he said, meeting his eyes.  “I have an important question.   Would you like very much to come?  Would you rather not come?  Or would you rather I decide for you?”</p><p>Geralt swallowed.  His eyes were very dark now, so dilated they were watering in the light just a bit, and he kept rapidly blinking.  “You,” he said roughly.  “You—you decide.  I.”  He huffed out a breath through his nose, so that his nostrils flared.  “Please.”</p><p>Jaskier smiled at him.  “I do so like it when you put yourself in my hands, my dearest one,” he said, stroking Geralt’s slightly trembling shoulders with his thumbs.  “It will be my pleasure to decide.”</p><p>Geralt sighed, a soft, pleasured, almost relieved noise, and huffed out through his nose again, his eyes fluttering shut as he stilled under Jaskier’s hands.  It had always been a matter of fascination for Jaskier that Geralt’s eyelashes were so dark, unlike his brows and even his pubic hair, and he indulged himself, letting himself run just the edge of his thumb against the soft dark feathery edge of Geralt’s lashes against his cheek.  Geralt gave a soft rough almost snuffling noise through his nose and turned his face to press into Jaskier’s touch, into his hand.  Jaskier smiled and brought Geralt’s head forward with gentle nudges of his palm, the heel of it, his fingers, against his jaw, until he could tilt his head inward and kiss him.  He started it off soft and gentle, the barest brush of their lips together, as he lingered over Geralt’s gently parted ones, feeling and tasting his warmth breath.</p><p>Geralt’s breath caught in his throat, and he moaned as Jaskier leaned deeper into the kiss, keeping it soft and gentle, slow over his lips, moving in and then sliding back, sliding his hand up into Geralt’s hair to hold his head steady as he began to lose himself in the kiss himself, coaxing Geralt’s willing mouth softly open, more deeply.  He was so warm, his mouth so giving and sweet under Jaskier’s, even as he groaned deep in his throat and shivered under him.  Jaskier slid his other hand down Geralt’s chest, over his bandages, gently, down to his side, stroked his fingers down his hip, first the tips of them, then the back of his hand, as he continued kissing him, deep and soft and warm and wonderful, Geralt’s every gasp and shudder against him as heady as the strongest, finest spirits he’d ever tasted.  He pressed in against him, pushing with the soft weight of his body, and coaxed Geralt to lie back on his side, still tugging at his hair and kissing him, more eagerly now, and more deeply, until they were both lying with their heads on the pillow, against the bed on their sides.</p><p>Geralt wrapped his arm around him, hand spreading out flat on his back, pulling Jaskier even closer.  Jaskier hummed his appreciation and slid his hand even deeper into Geralt’s hair, tugging it gently but eagerly as he kissed his way deeper and deeper into Geralt’s mouth, wriggling closer, reveling in Geralt’s groans and gasps and the hot, desperate way he was kissing him back.  He tugged Jaskier’s shirt upwards, out of his trousers, one hand sliding up the line of his spine, kneading hard at his back while the other gripped hotly, desperately, at Jaskier’s arse.  Gods, the way that big, strong, rough-callused hand felt there, grasping at him.  It was enough to have Jaskier’s cock at full mast instantly, abruptly, just from that.  Jaskier made appreciative noises into Geralt’s mouth, moaning and pressing up against him, rolling his hips and rubbing his cock through his trousers against Geralt’s hips and groin, enjoying the heat and burgeoning hardness of Geralt there, between his legs, as he pushed his knee forward, pushed his leg between Geralt’s thighs.  Geralt clutched more desperately at him, hotly, growled in his throat as Jaskier sucked on his bottom lip and swept his tongue over Geralt’s.</p><p>Jaskier smiled against his mouth and slid his hand down, over Geralt’s side, along his hip, to slide his palm down over Geralt’s bare thigh, avoiding the bandage, to slide it between Geralt’s legs, up over his balls, to take his massive, hot, rapidly hardening cock in his hand and squeeze.  Geralt was so big it always took him a few moments to get started and to harden fully, but he was clearly well on his way already.</p><p>“There you are, lovely,” Jaskier murmured between kisses, sliding his tongue teasingly over Geralt’s again, and Geralt growled, whimpered, pressing his face hard into the side of Jaskier’s, against his cheek.  “Shh, it’s all right,” Jaskier told him, moving back to suck hard on his bottom lip, teasing it with his teeth, short little bites as he rubbed up and down the shaft of Geralt’s cock with his thumb, circling it against the delicate, velvety smooth skin so thin over the hot pulsing of blood through Geralt’s cock.</p><p>The way Geralt reacted was wonderful, moaning open-mouthed against Jaskier’s lips, shuddering, hips jerking.  He was usually so quiet in bed that any sound from him felt like a triumph.  Jaskier bit lightly at Geralt’s mouth, biting kisses, teasing at his tongue, the sides of his lips, then pulled away and grazed his teeth over his softly stubbled jaw, kissed down Geralt’s throat.  It never failed to awe him, the way Geralt would sigh and let his head tilt back, give it up for Jaskier’s mouth at his throat, at his pulse.</p><p>He pressed a kiss to the fluttering hollow at the base of Geralt’s throat, dragging his hand up to trail his thumb over the head of Geralt’s cock, all radiant, almost searing heat, smeared hot wetness all around it, down over him, at the same time.  Geralt flinched, gasped like he’d been struck, clutched tight at Jaskier’s hip until he was sure there’d be bruises.</p><p>When Jaskier cast his eyes up again, the witcher’s mouth was open and wet, kissed and bitten dark, red and hot and swollen.  He raised one hand, let his fingers wander over it, dip between Geralt’s lips, teased his puffy bottom one with his thumb.  Geralt groaned again, trembled all over beneath him as his lips parted further, smearing Jaskier’s thumb with wet.  His eyes were half open but had the massively dilated, starry, soft, glazed look they got when he was already deeply lost in sensation.  Jaskier cupped his jaw and cheek firmly in his hand, smoothing his thumb over Geralt’s stubble, and pressed another biting kiss into his mouth, teasing at his tongue while he caressed his face and brought his other hand up over his pelvis, teasing through the wiry white hair around his cock, up over his belly, tugging at the hair there, too, and his chest, until he skimmed over the bandage and found one of Geralt’s nipples through his pelt of chest hair—he’d been careful to leave some parts of his chest clear while he bandaged him—to pinch hard between his fingers.</p><p>Geralt jolted, gasped into his mouth, and Jaskier kissed him again, smiled into the kiss, sucked on his bottom lip and gave it another little bite, still tugging on his nipple.  “You like that?” he murmured against Geralt’s swollen bottom lip.  “Shove me off if you don’t, eh?”  He gave Geralt a moment to push his hand away, just to make it clear to both of them when he did not, didn’t even move, aside from twitching against Jaskier and panting dazedly into his mouth.  “I can keep going then?” he asked into his mouth, and circled his finger around that nipple once, twice, three times, before Geralt shuddered and grabbed at his hips, tilted his head back.</p><p>“Jaskier,” he groaned, and it sounded needy, hot and wanting, with the deep groan in it that Jaskier had come to learn meant Geralt was lost in desire.</p><p>“Mmm, here, love,” Jaskier said, and caught Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth again, squeezing his fingers hard on his nipple.  Geralt liked his nipple play hard, generally speaking, and Jaskier could grab and squeeze and pinch him about as hard as he could, pretty much.  It was usually just enough to leave the bruises Geralt liked to have after.  Jaskier had strong hands, from his lute playing, but Geralt’s skin and muscle was incredibly resilient and didn’t mark well, for all his paleness.  Geralt groaned at that, into his mouth, a clear sound of pleasure, hoarse and creaking the way he got, like his vocal cords didn’t quite know how to respond to feeling that good.</p><p>Jaskier dug his fingers in, scratched with his nails, pulled hard on Geralt’s hot, peaking nipple until Geralt grunted hot and low into his mouth, then went back to tugging more gently, massaging around it with his fingers, rubbing in a rough massage meant to get the skin red and sensitive, like chafing at the skin of cold hands to get them warmed up.  Geralt groaned again, clutched at Jaskier’s waist, pulling him closer, skimming his big warm hands up the skin of Jaskier’s waist under his shirt and clutching at him with gratifying need, especially gratifying when he’d barely got started.  He dragged his nails down over that hot, needy nipple—longish nails, that he oiled, to keep them strong for playing—with enough force that if someone did it to him he’d be cursing their name and that of all their ancestors and fucking <em>yowling</em>, so loud they could hear it in Nilfgaard.  Geralt just moaned gratifyingly, beautifully, soft but long and from deep in his chest, his hips jerking, pressing his hard cock against Jaskier’s thigh, his hip.  He could feel the wet warmth of how Geralt was leaking, feel it soaking through Jaskier’s trousers.  Now that was <em>sexy</em>, but Jaskier still wriggled back just a little, one hand flying to the placket of his trousers and hurrying to unlace them.  He didn’t want even more clothes that would have to be laundered.</p><p>Geralt moaned, pressed close again, and Jaskier turned his attention back to him, pressed a softer kiss to his open, wanting mouth, and then dropped down, until his head was level with Geralt’s vast and frankly glorious chest, even bandaged as it was, and he found the red, sore looking peak of his nipple behind its covering of hair and leaned in, sucking at it, biting and laving with his tongue, playing with the texture of Geralt’s soft and wiry chest hair with the tip and flat of his tongue, biting and biting until he was sure that nipple was hot and red and painful, until it was bitten as red and hot as he’d left Geralt’s mouth, glorying in the soft little gasps and groans and choked off bits of sound Geralt made, even as he hurried to get his own trousers open and down and shimmy out of them.</p><p>Finally, finally, he was kicking them away and pressing back up against Geralt, warm skin against warm skin this time, feeling the hair on Geralt’s legs tingle beautifully against his own.  He rucked up his shirt around his waist and pressed in close to the big beautiful body next to him, coaxing Geralt forward with one hand on his glorious, muscular sculptural masterpiece of an arse, until he got his thigh back between both of Geralt’s huge, warm, muscular ones, fiery warm and lovely, pressed it in against the hot searing line of his huge cock, biting at his nipple all the while as Geralt whined and gasped and groaned and circled his hips like he didn’t know what to do with himself, sucking on the hot flesh, working it with his tongue, then biting it again, until it was red and hot and felt raw and hurting under his tongue, with that hot, metallic taste that raw skin got, swollen like a wound.  Only then did he pull off, with a soft little kiss for that sore, red peak, hot and throbbing now, swollen and red and obvious even through Geralt’s chest hair, then brought his fingers up and tweaked at it, Geralt still hot and damp, wet and sticky from his tongue, his saliva, as he switched to the other with his mouth.</p><p>Geralt grunted, groaned, breathing in short, hard little bursts, wavering and out of control like he never got during a fight, fingers clutching at Jaskier’s back and curling into loose, restless fists against his spine and shoulder blades, his body flinching and shaking, alive with quivering gasps in a way that made his medallion thump against his chest and that at least let Jaskier know he was feeling it, that it was hurting him enough, in the best way, as he massaged roughly and plucked at Geralt’s abused nipple, kneading it hard with his thumb before tugging on it again, enjoying the damp sticky feel his saliva had left around the hot, swollen, abused flesh, even as he worked the other with his tongue and teeth, trying to drag the same angry hot redness out of it, working blood to the surface, hot and swelling under his tongue even as he dragged his nails hard up and down over the other.  Geralt gave a hoarse little noise, too low-voiced to be a shout, and Jaskier grinned, set his teeth against his flesh and bit, sucked <em>hard</em>.</p><p>He didn’t stop until both Geralt’s nipples were hot and red and swollen and obviously aching, hard and needy points in his hands and under his fingers, hot with blood, and his hot hard needy length was positively <em>leaking</em> wet heat against Jaskier’s thigh and into his own soft curls of pubic hair, then kept plucking at both Geralt’s nipples, dragging his nails over them, and leaned up again to press a deep, slow kiss into Geralt’s mouth, biting his way in where it hung open and breathless, then slipping his tongue in deep and coaxing, using it insistently but more gently to deepen the kiss, turn it softer but all the deeper.  Geralt groaned, thready and low and whimpering in his throat, giving way for him like a dream, shivering, shuddering, his mouth open and welcoming, softly needy in a way that made it feel like he wanted more but didn’t dare to demand it, or even to ask for it.</p><p>Someday Geralt would, would dare to ask, for kisses, for anything he wanted.  Jaskier had promised himself that.</p><p>Jaskier kissed him again and again, pressing bruise-soft kisses into his mouth, playing with his hot, sore, no doubt bruising nipples, tugging and pulling, pressing his thumbs in over the swollen peaks and around the hot areolas and dragging over them with his nails.  He moved down, scratching roughly at Geralt’s stomach, against his chest hair, over his abdominals, leaving scratches from his nails down over his core, and Geralt’s breath rasped in his throat, and he seemed to go limp against him, limp and yielding.</p><p>He pulled away, kissing down over Geralt’s chin, along the side of his mouth and his jaw, down against his chin, and Geralt moaned, trembling, his eyes fluttering open to little slits with their gold barely showing.  “Jask,” he groaned after a moment.  “Harder.”</p><p>“Harder?” Jaskier asked, softly, rounding one of Geralt’s nipples with his nail.  “Do you want to bleed, my love?”  He hid the thrill of having Geralt <em>ask</em> as best he could, knowing that when he showed his elation, it made Geralt shy and self-conscious, especially when he was already so open and needing and off his balance like this.  And <em>asking</em> for something.</p><p>Geralt groaned deep in his chest at the question, a low rumble that vibrated along into Jaskier’s with the force of it, like it was the sexiest thing he could think of.  “<em>Please</em>,” he moaned, and how could Jaskier refuse a request like that?</p><p>He squeezed Geralt’s nipples again, hard enough to be cruel, then slid back downwards, digging his nails in around one nipple and returning his mouth to the other, biting in hard against a good chunk of Geralt’s flesh, hair and areola and already hot throbbing nipple, all teeth.  It always took determination from Jaskier to make Geralt bleed; his instinct was to ease off before then, soothe with his tongue and soft little kisses to make up for how hard he’d abused his lover’s flesh, but Geralt always wanted it harder and harder still.  He wanted to feel it in the morning, be able to see it, to be left with bruises that wouldn’t heal overnight.  Geralt was whimpering, deliciously needy, as Jaskier bit him and bit him where he was already raw, clamped down his jaw until he felt his teeth break skin and Geralt gave a loud intake of breath, a ragged gasp, his fingers flying up to Jaskier’s head and clenching hard in his hair, pressing into his skull but not with painful force, clutching needily.  Jaskier took that as his direction and bit and sucked all the harder, dragging his teeth back and forth in a way that made him feel like a terrier with a rat, making the wound deeper, bloodier, wider, bruising Geralt no doubt terribly, sucking and sucking hard until the blood was rushing to the surface and leaving a slick metallic heat over Jaskier’s tongue.</p><p>He didn’t stop until there was a sweet, needy whine building in the back of Geralt’s throat and his fingers were fisted, grasping tight in Jaskier’s hair, the taste of his blood all over Jaskier’s lips and his tongue, and when he moved away a long slow drop of blood welled up and oozed down over Geralt’s ribs.  Jaskier followed it with his finger, wiping it up and running the pad of it over the sore looking wound he’d left.  Geralt sucked in breath through his teeth and shuddered.  Jaskier’s finger came away smeared with Geralt’s blood.  He pressed inward, gently, flicked the hot, raw, swollen peak of Geralt’s nipple a moment later.  “All right, love?” he breathed.  “Not too hard?”</p><p>Geralt moaned, arched his back so that his chest pressed up into Jaskier’s touch.  He smiled, covered Geralt’s nipple and pectoral with his hand, dug the heel of it in, hard, until he gasped and shuddered under him.</p><p>“Just hard enough?” he asked, and Geralt gave a soft little sigh, reached for his own cock, curled his palm around it, gripped the tip and tugged at it with his fist.  Jaskier let him, let him tease himself for a few moments, before he tsked at him gently, caught his hand in his, and brought it up and away.  “No, no, love,” he said.  “I’ll decide when we pay attention to your cock, my dear.”  Geralt sighed, again, and his eyes fluttered, he gave a gravelly little whimpering moan, but he let Jaskier take his hand and pull it up and away.  “That’s my good boy,” Jaskier praised him, and Geralt whimpered a little more in the back of his throat, eyes squeezing shut tight now.  Jaskier pressed gentle kisses to Geralt’s knuckles, soft and lingering with lips and tongue, wet over the rough skin, a courtly reward despite the dirty slip of wet tongue over each knuckle, then pushed his arm down and leaned down to make Geralt’s other nipple bleed.</p><p>He knew Geralt wanted big, harsh bruises there that he’d be able to feel under his shirt, raw and rubbing against his armor the next day even through it.  He flicked the other nipple with his fingers as he dug in his teeth, biting and grinding until he bit into the skin, rubbing it with his knuckles, tugging at the sore point.  He kept at it until his mouth filled with the tang of Geralt’s blood for the second time, and then he began to suck, hard, pressing down on Geralt’s belly with his other hand just to give himself some support, a counterpoint, bringing blood up to the surface of his skin, making him whimper and writhe even as he knuckled in against his other heaving pectoral, gripping and squeezing the muscle as he might have at a breast, massaging in over sore flesh until Geralt was gasping, hand grasping clumsily at big loose handfuls of Jaskier’s hair, tugging and then spasming out wide, kneading at the back of his head, then tugging again.  Geralt wouldn’t bleed for long; Jaskier would have to re-open the wounds again and again with his mouth before the end of the night to leave him really satisfied with the pain and lasting power of the teeth-made bruises around his nipples, but that was perfectly all right.  He pulled away, finally, from the hot raw flesh of Geralt’s warm chest, rubbing his nose through his chest hair, then tugged at it with his fingers, watching blood well up even as he knuckled cruelly over the other in a rough massage that kept that wound open and wet with blood.  Geralt winced, gasped, his mouth open, jaw sagging, eyes starry and far away, lashes low and heavy.</p><p>“Is that good, love?”  Jaskier murmured.</p><p>Geralt whined, clearly a wordless agreement, and clutched at Jaskier’s hair.  He never talked much in bed; it was an effort to coax out a “good” or “please” or “yes,” though getting him to pant or sob or moan Jaskier’s name was a bit easier.  He was only marginally more talkative when he was the one doing to Jaskier, though then it was mostly one word instructions or questions—“spread,” or “open,” or “up,” or “all right?” or “shh,” maybe with a pet name attached if Jaskier was being very loud or very desperate, “I’ve got you,” if Jaskier was trembling, or, if Jaskier was being very pleasing, “good,” and if he were being very, <em>very</em> pleasing indeed, perhaps, “so good.”  Once Geralt had slid his big warm hands down Jaskier’s sides once he’d ridden the witcher’s massive cock and felt him come inside of him, more than once, pressing in a way that made Jaskier feel like he was putting his liquid bones and jellied bodied back into shape again, smoothing him gently back together, and murmured, “So good for me, Jaskier,” and Jaskier had cried out and come at once, all over Geralt’s stomach, at the burst of pleasure that had sent through him.  The startled way Geralt had looked at him, after, his fond smile and the way he’d reached up and touched Jaskier’s chin, murmured, “Always so good for me,” was one of Jaskier’s treasured memories.  It also represented one of the longest speeches he’d ever gotten from Geralt in bed, all at once.  So far.</p><p>But that was perfectly all right, too.  Jaskier talked more than enough for both of them.</p><p>“That’s my good boy,” Jaskier murmured fondly.  “Lovely and bleeding, just for me.”  He leaned in, pressed his bloody mouth to Geralt’s lips.  “Taste yourself,” he murmured.  “Lick yourself off me, like the good, sweet thing you are, hmm?”</p><p>Geralt gasped, grunted out a little moan, and leaned eagerly into the mouth, licking up his own blood, teasing at Jaskier’s lips with his tongue, lapping at him sweetly and enthusiastically and carefully as he licked his own blood from Jaskier’s mouth.  Jaskier let him coax his mouth open, welcomed him in along his tongue, took a big fistful of his hair and tugged as Geralt kissed him breathlessly and eagerly, still knuckling roughly at his hot, bleeding nipple with his other hand.  When he pulled away from the kiss, pressing a soft, wet, open-mouthed kiss to Geralt’s lips before he did, a promise, he centered himself a moment, looking down at Geralt’s heaving pectorals, getting a good sense of where the points of sensation were in relation to his wounds, reached down and squeezed at the muscle so hard it must have left bruises in the places the points of his fingers had pressed in, even if they wouldn’t last, rubbing the heel of his palm hard against the wounded point, then hauled back and delivered a stinging slap to one bruised, bloodied nipple and the aching flesh of Geralt’s lush tit.  The witcher gasped, jerked, his eyes flying open, arched into the blow.</p><p>“Oh, you lovely thing,” Jaskier said, affectionately.  He rubbed at the rough red splotch the blow had left on Geralt’s muscle.  Carefully, because humiliation with Geralt was a dangerous game, but the man loved it when he got it right, he murmured, in his most obviously warm and affectionate tone, almost raw with it, “You’re the most delectable whore for pain I’ve ever met, my sweet man.”</p><p>Geralt went loose under him, moaned, tossed his head, mouth going slack and eyes falling shut, head tipping backward, almost lost his balance and toppled backward flat on his back.  Jaskier caught at his hip, pulled him forward again, and held him there as he delivered another hard, stinging slap to Geralt’s other wounded breast.  So that was a result.  He’d gotten it right, thank Melitele and all her sweet graces.</p><p>Geralt gave a growling whimper, buried his face in Jaskier’s shoulder, panting, his mouth open and drooling wet saliva into Jaskier’s shirt.  “Oh, my dear, my sweet, I have you,” Jaskier murmured, kissing his temple with a brush of lips, pulling and stroking at his hair, taking him in his arms and squeezing just for a moment, before he eased himself back just enough to slap Geralt again.  He did it again, and again, squeezing at Geralt’s heaving muscles in between, rubbing them enough to keep blood dripping from the wounds he’d left, just a little, to keep Geralt warm and sore, then going back to smack him again.  Geralt was clutching at him, moaning wetly, rubbing his drool-damp face on his shirt, against his shoulder, then tucking it in against his neck again and panting, leaving his neck down into his chest hair smeared with saliva, clutching at his hair and at his back with his other hand in big handfuls at his shirt.  Every time he slapped Geralt, his medallion jumped on his chest, thudded back down, and it was starting to leave a bruise of its own where it lay between his pectorals, smacking into him probably harder than Jaskier was.  Jaskier took a breath and smacked him again.  Again.  And again.</p><p>He kept at it, hitting Geralt <em>hard</em>, until his whole front was a red, rosy flushing mess, and when he ran his fingers over it lightly, skimmed them under his medallion, Geralt actually flinched and gave a high tight little shuddering breath, and when Jaskier pinched meanly at his hot, swollen, nipple, he groaned and panted, shuddering down his spine, and ground his hips hard into Jaskier’s, prick against his thigh, pressing the hot wet tip of it up against Jaskier’s own cock, into his groin.  Jaskier’s palm was stinging, but he dug his fingers into Geralt’s pectorals, even harder, squeezed, trying to bruise him, and Geralt gave a hoarse little cry, bucked up against him, pressing his wet face panting into Jaskier’s jaw, mouthing wetly at his ear.</p><p>“Mmm, good boy,” Jaskier mumbled against Geralt’s sweaty neck.  He got one hand down, squeezed at his arse, rolling his hips up against his as he did, their cocks sliding together.  Geralt clutched at him even harder, whimpering and mumbling into his neck.</p><p>Jaskier pulled back just a bit, petting Geralt’s hair as he groaned, looked up at him with hazy, vastly dilated eyes, like big pools of black, barely any gold visible around the pupils at all, blinking hazily in the light, mouth open and wet and panting.  “Jaskier,” he moaned.</p><p>Jaskier smiled down at him, tracing the backs of his fingers tenderly down his jaw, then following them back up with his thumb.  “Right here,” he murmured.  “I’m with you.”  He fisted his hand in Geralt’s hair, gave it a rough jerk, and was rewarded by another broken groan, Geralt’s mouth falling open wetly as he let his head rock back against Jaskier’s hand.  He scratched roughly down over Geralt’s chest, first on one side, over the red swollen flesh and his red nipple, swollen from the angry bite, then rubbed his thumb around and around the peak, pressing hard, until another little trickle of blood oozed out of the wound.  He smeared it over Geralt’s nipple, then did the same to the other, still pulling harshly on the witcher’s hair, bringing his head back.  He would never have jerked so hard on the hair of any other partner he’d ever had, out of concern for their neck and spine, but he knew how Geralt loved it and could take it without injury.  “On your belly, now, all right?” he directed, using Geralt’s hair as a hold to pull him over even as he spread the towel out under his chest again, to push him down.  Geralt went with a punched out little breath, sprawling over the bed face down like he’d forgotten how to move, like he’d been held up by strings Jaskier had just suddenly cut.  Jaskier gripped him hard by his hair on the back of his head, jerked it lightly, and Geralt raised his head, spreading his legs against the bed so that his knees bit into the coverlet with a kind of artless grace, as if to invite him between them.</p><p>“Jask?” he asked, wetly, voice thick and dazed, getting one arm under him to look up at him.  His eyes were wide, dark and hazy, like he wasn’t seeing much at all.  “Like, like this?  Good?”</p><p>“Just like that,” Jaskier assured him, making his voice very certain, very warm, and very fond, because he could see that Geralt was deep and floating.  “So very good, Geralt.”  He slapped his arse, hard, hard enough to leave a bright, stinging mark, and Geralt jerked, hard, then smiled, shivered, dropped his head back down into the bed.  “You took that, all that, very well, didn’t you, my dear?” Jaskier murmured tenderly, rubbing the red mark over his arse.  “You really did.”  He moved to brace his knee between both of Geralt’s thighs, bending over him, and slid his hands under his broad chest, between him in the bed, skimming his palms up over his sweaty chest hair, knuckles sliding over the towel, pinching cruelly and firmly at his sore nipples until Geralt was shaking and he felt fresh blood against his fingers.  “All that abuse to your sweet chest, your sweet lovely nipples.  And now when I take you, and you jerk your chest up and down over the bed, which you will do, I promise you that, gorgeous, it will hurt so beautifully, won’t it?  You’ll reopen those nasty little bites I gave you and bleed all over this towel, isn’t that right?”</p><p>“Mmmm,” Geralt moaned, which sounded like heartfelt, luxurious agreement, like he was drunk with pleasure.  Jaskier smiled, because he could tell his love was feeling good, stroked the back of his neck, over the chain of his medallion, circling his finger down over it, under it and down over the dip of his spine.  Pain always felt almost like a cheat, a quick and dirty way to get Geralt here, sunk deep in the power of trust and sensation and out of his head enough to give himself over entirely into Jaskier’s hands, but Geralt enjoyed it, especially on nights that had been hard, like this one, so who was Jaskier to deny him?  He had a lot of complicated feelings about that, how needy Geralt got for pain after a hunt like tonight, but if Geralt felt he needed it, he wouldn’t deny him.  Just try to make sure his love and respect was just as clear as he gave him the hurt he hungered for so badly.  He leaned in, pressed a kiss to Geralt’s shoulder, another against his nape, right against the chain of the medallion, rubbed his hands gently against both his shoulders.</p><p>And, to be honest, he loved it, doing to Geralt like this, seeing him give it up so completely, seeing him hurting and writhing under Jaskier’s touch, the great fearless witcher panting and nearly sobbing just from what Jaskier could do to him, with his cleverness and clever hands and cleverer words and mouth, to see Geralt falling apart for him and know he trusted him, <em>Jaskier</em>, that much, to hear him calling out Jaskier’s name in his extremis, reaching for him, <em>wanting</em> him so much.  He hadn’t realized how much he actually <em>enjoyed</em> inflicting pain on someone who loved it until he’d had Geralt falling apart in his arms, his face open and naked and almost gutted just from being told he was good, that he took pain well.  Jaskier kissed him again, kissed his other shoulder, the dip of his spine, and felt Geralt tremble under him.  Softness, gentleness, was always harder for Geralt to take than pain, than roughness.  In a mood like this, he took soft kisses like a brand against his flesh.  He ran his hands down his back, pressing his thumbs in gently along the sides of his spine, gently coasting them over his bandages, to rub at the small of Geralt’s back, where his muscles were almost always so tight and tense.  They were a little looser at the moment, almost soft where he dug in his thumbs, even as he traced them down over Geralt’s spine, pressed his thumbs into the dimples just above Geralt’s arse.  Geralt gave a sweet little shiver against the bed, pulled the sheets tight into his fist, breathing heavily, unevenly.</p><p>“It’s all right, my love,” Jaskier murmured against the blade of his shoulder, even as he dragged his thumbs down lower, firmly kneading at the muscle.  “I’ve got you.”  He wouldn’t make him struggle with so much gentleness much longer, either.  He gripped Geralt’s hair in his fist instead, tugged once, then again, more roughly, and smacked his hand, hard, against the tight muscles of Geralt’s buttocks.  His arm was starting to feel warm and tingly-sore with effort, but he had a bit more left in him, and for Geralt, he was always willing to push himself to the edge, even if it made his arms sore enough that playing tomorrow was an effort.  It was a small price to pay for giving Geralt what he wanted, even needed.</p><p>Geralt jolted, buried his head in his arm, huffing for breath in a way Jaskier recognized, along with the twist and roll of his hips to push his cock up against the coverlet, as him being very hot, wanting very much, and not quite wanting to show it.  He had a tendency to bite at his own arm to muffle himself, too, but clearly they weren’t there yet.  Jaskier slapped Geralt’s arse again, rubbing in the sting, hard, firm, slapped him again, and again.  He preferred using his hand, much as it really did hurt to smack Geralt’s very, very firm, very muscular buttocks with his bare hand, much like smacking it up against a stone wall repeatedly.  It felt more intimate that way, more real; he could feel every little gasp and tremor of Geralt’s warm, heating body, the way he gasped and squirmed forward just the tiniest bit, or bucked his rear up, into the hits, just a fraction, hungry for more.  He could feel <em>him</em>, what he wanted, his every reaction, know how he was affecting him, trace his fingers gently over the skin, the perfect round of his arse, after, like he was doing now.  He didn’t want to take it to anything else, not tonight, when Geralt had seemed so affected by the siren’s song, seemed so trammeled inward on himself, trapped alone in his own pain, hating himself for wanting what he felt he shouldn’t, or wasn’t supposed to, or anything at all.  He’d had excellent results beating Geralt with the witcher’s own belt, but that seemed too harsh, too impersonal, for tonight.  And he didn’t want to get up to leave Geralt, even for a moment, do anything that might break the spell he was under.  Even if his hand was already burning like it was on fire.  At least he had a strong arm, though it was nothing compared to Geralt’s, of course.  Soon enough his palm would go numb, anyway.  Jaskier smacked Geralt’s other arse cheek, about as hard as he could, even harder than he had the first, and Geralt let out a huff of breath that became a low, groaning moan.  He spread his legs a little wider, and Jaskier wasn’t sure if that was instinctive or a suggestion, a hope.  Or perhaps both.</p><p>Either way, he couldn’t resist.  He held Geralt by his hip and slapped him, as hard as he could, just about, on his inner thigh, on the uninjured leg.  He might not have been as strong as Geralt, but he was strong enough to get a jolt and a desperate sounding little grunt out of the witcher, as his hand fisted hard in the coverlet, against the pillow.  Jaskier wondered if he should warn him not to rip the sheet, decided he didn’t care, and that the last thing he wanted to do was to make Geralt conscious of himself just now, and just smacked the same spot he had hit just before, just as hard.  He slapped him there, hard, bruisingly hard, if he’d been a standard human, again and again, squeezing and rubbing between hits to bring the blood up to the surface, making Geralt bruise harder, digging his fingers in, his fingernails, and bearing down, dragging slightly, against his skin, into his muscle, until Geralt was huffing out heavy breaths with each blow, flinching in his hips, gasping a little, his head down in the bed.  His back had gone very red, too, flushing down to meet his reddened arse cheeks.</p><p>Jaskier kept at it until his arm was burning and there was a big blotchy red mark on Geralt’s thigh, quickly darkening to a bruise, so that he could see the purplish gray of the bruising starting beneath the angry red, and Geralt was groaning, writhing in his hips and rolling them so that his big hot wet needy cock rubbed hard into the bed and the towel beneath him.  He was probably getting raw, fucking himself on the fabric like that, but Jaskier didn’t stop him just yet, just laid his hand down solidly over the mark he’d left on his thigh and squeezed, hard, rubbing his fingers and thumb in against Geralt’s hot skin where angry, fiery heat radiated from the abused flesh.  Only when Geralt gasped, groaned, his mouth visibly wet and drooling where he turned his head, tossing it dazedly, dizzily, against the pillow, the bed, and finally started to settle, hips stilling and breathing evening out, did Jaskier drag his nails, hard, down the back of Geralt’s thigh, to the sensitive inside of his knee, hard enough to leave scoring welts, bring blood flooding to the surface, and make Geralt give a harsh little gasp of a breath, wet and gasping, into the surface of the pillow as he flinched under it. </p><p>It was breathtaking, heady, to see Geralt reacting like that, to see his own fingernails marking him, to see him bruising from Jaskier’s hands.  It always made him feel dizzy, dizzy and powerful and his chest tight and hot with wonder and affection and helpless, breathtaking love to watch Geralt like this, to watch as he let Jaskier’s hands mark him and own him and take him to careful pieces.  It was hard for Jaskier not to be talking, but he kept biting his lips against the words of love and praise and gratitude, because this kind of physical effort took it out of him and he didn’t want Geralt to hear the gasping winded breathlessness in his voice, the physical effort, and feel guilty for it.  He slapped at the welts he’d left, not as hard, but enough to make Geralt gasp and whimper, pinched his warm, red arse cheek hard enough to bruise, and slapped it again.  Geralt gulped out a moan into the pillow.</p><p>“Doing so well for me,” he gasped out, finally, rubbing at Geralt’s firm rear and slapping it lightly, just to keep the skin warm and painful enough that Geralt was jerking just a little with each hit.</p><p>Geralt gasped himself, sounding like that had struck him harder than Jaskier’s hand ever had, shook against the bed.</p><p>“You are, my brave witcher,” Jaskier assured him, letting his voice drop low and husky and thicken over the words to hide how very breathless it was.</p><p>Geralt whimpered.  “I can take a . . . little . . . smacking around,” he said roughly into the pillow, after a moment like he’d had to look for the words, but his voice was loose and slurring soft, husky and thin and thready.  “This’s nothing.”</p><p>“I know you can,” Jaskier said fondly.  “That’s what I mean.  So sturdy, so <em>strong</em> for me.  Bearing whatever I want to do to you so, so very well.  I want you whimpering for me, witcher, before we’re done.  I want you whining and breathless.  I want the only word you remember how to say to be my name.”</p><p>“Haa,” Geralt whined out against the bed, quivering when Jaskier smacked his arse again, squeezed at his bruised thigh.</p><p>“Mmm, that’s a good first step,” Jaskier said, and Geralt flinched and gave a little gasping huff, a breathless sort of growl.  He half wished he’d fished some of his toys out of his pack before he’d gotten started, but that was all right.  His fingers would do just as well, once he got there.  “This is for me, love,” he murmured.  “This is entirely different from facing some monster, isn’t it?  This is you, lying bared for me, giving yourself to me.  Letting me take you.  Letting me lay you bare.  Utterly, utterly bare.  This is far more devastatingly difficult than anything any drowner or kikimora could ever hope to present you with.  Isn’t it, my dear witcher?”  He gripped Geralt’s arse cheek, hard, pulled the poor reddened, hot skin, all that hard, twitching, flexing muscle, to the side, exposing his hole.  Geralt shivered, gave a little flinch and breathless huff of air as he was exposed to the air of the room, even warm as it was.  He was very sensitive, in bed, like this, all his superb, impossibly enhanced senses working to keep him hyper-aware and in his body, on the edge.  “And you’re going to lie here and take it for me, like the good, obedient boy you are.”</p><p>He rubbed his thumb down, between Geralt’s cheeks, against the lightly furred little entrance to his body, and was greeted by Geralt giving a yelping growl, his hips bucking and one leg kicking out aimlessly, not at all aimed toward Jaskier, as he gripped the pillows and sheets with both hands, then buried his face in them, vast arm muscles rippling and flexing.  Jaskier rubbed at him again, just there, in that most vulnerable place, one of the few soft places on Geralt’s body, that place and his cock and between, feeling the warmth and dampness of sweat there, the heat of Geralt’s body and the softer skin of his intimate places, the soft scratch of wiry hair, and Geralt bit down on the blanket, filled his mouth up with it and whined through the linen and wool, the sound coming from deep in his chest and sounding like a creaking door as air hissed through his nose.  Being taken, having his arsehole played with, always seemed utterly overwhelming to Geralt, like it was difficult, like he wanted it so badly but he had to fight himself to let himself take it.  And yet he wanted it so badly he would fight for it, fight himself for it, every time, and it always seemed to leave him dazed and pliant at the end, made him quiver and shake and shout and pound his fist into the bed or the dirt or the bark of a tree or whatever was to hand until finally the fight left him and he collapsed, all shocked, helpless eagerness like his wanting surprised him every time with the depth of it.</p><p>Jaskier took a breath, steadying himself, then hauled back again, and landed another open-palmed blow, hard, right over Geralt’s crack, near the base of his cheeks, right over his hole.  The way Geralt gasped at that, the way he shook, lurched up the bed and jerked against the covers, his arm jerking down dramatically, pulling on the bed linens, and he moaned into his mouthful of bedding, loud and long and so wet Jaskier know he was making all kinds of a mess of spit and saliva over it, made Jaskier feel dizzy, lightheaded, like the room was swimming around him, and strong, a thousand feet tall, like a giant of legend.  He struck Geralt again, hard enough to make his hand sting, then said, “You’d like to be good, wouldn’t you, Geralt?” in his softest, gentlest, most understanding, most undemanding tone.  He rubbed his thumb over Geralt’s reddened arsehole and Geralt whimpered, grunted, his thighs quivering.</p><p>“Yeah,” he moaned after a moment, almost unintelligible.  “Good, Jask, please.”</p><p>“Would you like to reach down and hold yourself open for me?” Jaskier asked softly, rubbing his thumb a little harder against the sensitive, flinching hole.  “Open yourself, expose yourself for me, and this sweet little hole of yours—” he trailed his thumb over it, gently, slowly “—so I can make it sting before I have you?”</p><p>“Jask,” Geralt gulped, sounding hot, wild and overwhelmed, and then he reached down with his other hand and spread himself open, tugging his arse cheek hard to the side.  “Like that?” he gasped.  “S’ good?”</p><p>“Oh, so very good,” Jaskier said, a rush of affection, rubbed his hole gently with his thumb as he leaned forward to press a kiss to the round of Geralt’s shoulder, to the back of his neck.  “So <em>very</em> good, Geralt.  You can have your spanking now.”</p><p>Geralt gave a little noise, flinched so that it quivered down the muscles along his spine, glared at Jaskier over his shoulder, cheeks going red.</p><p>“Oh, so you don’t want me to hit your pretty little hole until you flinch away from my cock, can barely stand it as you still yourself, force your hips still for me as I press in and it feels like a brand pressing past that hot, swollen shut, aching entrance to your body, and I’m swearing because you’re so tight I can barely get myself into you as you clench and try so very hard to let me take you?  Hmm, witcher?” Jaskier asked, rubbing even more gently, but deeply, insistently, against Geralt’s hole, deep into the muscle until Geralt flinched under it.  “You don’t want me to turn this lovely bottom red, make you so hot and sensitive that you feel every inch of me as I <em>slowly</em> press into your lovely body, make you feel it, make you take me deep inside?  You don’t want that?”</p><p>“<em>Jask</em>,” a deep sigh this time, thick and shaking with desperation, from down low in Geralt’s chest.  He rolled his hips against the bed, spread his legs, flexed his gorgeous thighs so that his knees dug into his bed and his arse lifted, offering himself.</p><p>Jaskier kissed his shoulder again, smiled against his skin, dragged his teeth down it gently.  “That’s what I thought,” he murmured smugly against Geralt’s shoulder blade.  “Open yourself up for me, lovely, hold yourself open wide.”  Geralt’s fingers scrabbled, pressing in so hard the skin was turning white under them, then red, as he held himself open, so firmly.  “That’s it,” Jaskier told him.  “That’s absolutely perfect.”</p><p>“O-oh,” Geralt breathed out, shakily.  The sound was shaking and wet, rasping on the soft exhalation so hard Jaskier was half surprised it didn’t start a coughing fit.  Jaskier hesitated just a moment, just to make sure Geralt was breathing all right after all—after all, his mouth was full of bed linens, but he seemed like he was well enough—then slapped his hand down as hard as he could right over Geralt’s hole.</p><p>The witcher gave a loud burst of growling noise, immediately buried his face in the coverlet again and filled his mouth with linens.  Whenever Jaskier got Geralt to let loose like that, make that much noise in bed, it made him feel dizzy, like there was a rushing in his ears, a blooming flood of adrenaline that made it easier to hit him again, and again.  Geralt cried out each time, flinching, jolting, gripping tight in the sheet and banging his fist against the bed, but in his position with one knee half braced against the bed, Jaskier could see just how hard and wet his cock still was, red all over and raw from rubbing and rutting into the covers, the towel, messy and wet as he smeared pre-come all over the fabric, still rubbing what had to be the sore head of his angry, needy looking cock against the firmness of the mattress.  Jaskier hit him again, somehow finding the strength to hit him even harder, then leaned down, forward, getting his hand under Geralt, fitting his arm between his hot, muscular thighs, beneath his damp, sweaty-slick buttocks, to grip his cock in his hand, pinch meanly at the base and squeeze his balls.  He would be generous, give Geralt a goal to focus on, something close, within sight.  “Don’t you dare come before I get inside you, witcher,” he murmured against Geralt’s back, and Geralt whimpered, moaned, hit his fist against the bed again, his knee slipping outwards dangerously.  “Do you hear me?” Jaskier asked, more demandingly, gripped Geralt’s cock hard now, in a firm hold that had to be hurting him.</p><p>“Yes, Jask, yes, yeah,” Geralt panted, the words sounding like they were torn out of his throat.  “Won’t.  Won’t come until you, you, you’re—you’re—”</p><p>“Inside you?” Jaskier asked, and pinched at the base of Geralt’s balls, keeping the pressure hard and cruel, trying to make it easier for him to do what he’d asked of him and hold off.</p><p>“Yeah,” Geralt said, his breath sobbing in his chest, his throat.  “Yeah.”</p><p>“That’s it, dearest,” Jaskier murmured, still gripping his balls and the base of his cock painfully tight, pressing his thumb in so hard against a spot between and behind them that he knew Geralt wouldn’t be able to come, but making sure all the fondness and love and desire he felt for him came through in his voice, otherwise, all the warmth he had just glowing inside his chest like an ember.  “So good.  So good for me.  So obedient.”</p><p>Geralt’s cock swelled and jerked, going taut as if he would have come if Jaskier hadn’t held him back from it, and the witcher trembled, a wave of shivers starting at his shoulders and running over him like a stormy sea, shaking all the way down to his feet, which slammed into the bed, his toes curling against the coverlet.</p><p>“I—I can?” he mumbled after a moment.  “When, once, you’re, you’re—‘lowed?”</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier said.  “You’re allowed to come once I’m inside you, love.  And you’re my <em>very</em> good boy for asking.”</p><p>Geralt gave a whimpering little noise and his cock jerked again in Jaskier’s hand, his shoulders trembling.  Jaskier squeezed his cock again, gentler this time but pushing the heel of his palm in firm at his base, making sure he held off from coming, pet at his thigh, rubbed his arse, soothing, quieting him, then pulled his hand back, steadied himself, and then let fly another blow to land on his exposed hole.  When Jaskier hit him again, Geralt cried out, muffled by the blankets, and unbalanced, his knee sliding out from under him, fell down flat on his front against the coverlet and the towel, his hand slipping dangerously on his reddened buttock before he scrambled to replace it, pull himself open all over again.</p><p>“<em>So</em> good,” Jaskier told him warmly, and struck his poor, reddening hole again.  It already looked raw, the skin of the base of Geralt’s arse cheeks and his crack starting to flush and glow from Jaskier’s slaps, sensitive skin swelling under the abuse.  It wasn’t easy to make pain last for Geralt, though, so Jaskier kept at it, refused to stop until he was certain that stinging warmth would linger, and it would hurt Geralt when he opened him, really hurt.  He knew Geralt would be disappointed if he didn’t <em>really</em> feel it.</p><p>He kept at it until there was sweat dripping down his face and the back of his neck, sticking his hair to his forehead, and his arm was cramping, the side of his palm swollen and sore, and Geralt could no longer hold stoically still for each slap, for he was whimpering and jerking, writhing against the bed, with every one, his whole crease, his arsehole, the base of his cheeks, so hot with it that Jaskier could feel the heat radiating against his palm with every slap.  Geralt had, inevitably, ripped the sheets and apparently not even noticed, and he was whimpering full on from deep in his chest, slurry and sloppy and wet with drool, into the linens in his mouth, giving whole body shudders every time he was struck.</p><p>Jaskier gave it up, letting his arm fall, aching, and his sore hand rest in his lap for a moment as he caught his breath, feeling hot and dizzy and sweat-sore, then straightened himself up, reached up and spread Geralt apart with his thumbs to get a look.  He hissed as if Jaskier had just touched him with hot coals, there in that sensitive spot, body shaking and flinching, not quite pulling away from the touch but moving as if he wanted to, his poor hips flinching forward, driving him hard into the mattress, and Jaskier knew he had done enough, then.  Geralt’s skin looked swollen and red, felt thin and puffy and inflamed and tender when he ran his finger down over it, and Geralt actually flinched again, groaning, rocked his knee against the bed.  Thank the gods, though, he wasn’t bleeding.</p><p>Jaskier circled his thumb in a slow, gentle circle over the hot, abused flesh, a tender caress that no doubt made Geralt feel like he was being set alight, at least from the way he choked and groaned at the touch, but unable to stop himself from making the tender gesture and knowing Geralt would want the extra pain, then he let out a long, slow, wavering breath, rubbed sweat off his forehead with his arm, knowing that he was turning his hair fuzzy where it stuck to his hot forehead but too dizzy and overwhelmed to care, and laid his hand back on Geralt’s hot, muscular rear.  He slid it over the muscular curve to curl around Geralt’s own hand and squeeze around his fingers, then leaned in and down, pressed his lips and tongue to the hot, abused flesh of Geralt’s battered hole, licked gently and carefully along the hot, searing hot, swollen flesh he’d marked with his own hand, dragging his tongue gently along his crease.</p><p>Geralt made a noise like he’d just been stabbed in the gut, a low groaning, shocked gasp, and flinched, his muscles trembling like he didn’t quite know which way he wanted to go, his whole body seeming to give an almost uncertain flutter beneath Jaskier’s touch, muscles clenching and unclenching, from shoulders to toes.  Jaskier slid his other hand around Geralt’s no doubt bruised thigh again, held on, to steady both himself and Geralt, as he flicked his tongue lightly over the hot, tender skin he’d abused earlier.  Geralt tasted mostly of soap, clean skin and needy sex-sweat and the hot metallic ache of overused flesh and muscle, tender hot painful skin.  The soft wiry hair over his hole and between his cheeks was fuzzy and tingled against Jaskier’s tongue.  Geralt whined and shook under his tongue as he pressed it against him more insistently, laved it up and down his crease where he felt so hot and red, his shoulders and arms flexing.  Jaskier could tell Geralt was bringing his arm over, pressing his forehead into his forearm, as he panted, wet and open-mouthed, into the bed, probably to help quiet himself.</p><p>He gripped harder at Geralt’s thigh, pushing his thumb hard into the bruises he’d left until Geralt flinched, wavered under him just a little, then spread him apart a little wider, finding Geralt’s hottest point with his tongue, lapping and fluttering at his tender hole, learning with his tongue just how hot and swollen he’d left him.  The witcher was clearly more than a little bruised, if his low gasps like Jaskier was striking him with every pass of his tongue and how swollen his tender skin was were any indication.  Jaskier dragged his tongue along him, getting him nice and hot and dripping wet, tasting the raw hot tenderness of him with a heady thrill, then teased with gentle little flicks at the entrance to his body, clenched up tight and swollen even tighter now, and with his other hand squeezed around his fingers, bracing their linked hands together against the hot skin of his arse, until Geralt actually gripped him back.  Only then did he press his tongue in against him with little flicks and soft pressure, increasing it gradually.  Despite his frankly incredible muscular control, Geralt was always tight at first when it came to this sort of thing, always tense, like he’d forgotten how to relax, how to open up, his body going tense and tight and closed down as soon as it started, as if in this one thing and nothing else, he couldn’t make himself relax.  Even when Jaskier hadn’t spanked him sore and flinching and swollen first.  He could hear Geralt’s breathing waver, go heavy and thick, as he worked his tongue against him.</p><p>So Jaskier took it slow, drawing slow little circles on the tight rounded muscle of Geralt’s arse with his thumb, still linking their fingers together resting against it, as he licked and teased until his tongue was tingling and hot and Geralt’s crease was even hotter, sloppy and dripping with his spit, and only then did Geralt loosen enough that he could insistently press his tongue inside him.  Licking at him like this, he knew, had probably felt soothing at first, the hot passes of Jaskier’s tongue, but now probably felt like it was rubbing him even more raw, hot and aching, like a pumice stone over raw skin.  He couldn’t deny the thrill it brought him, though, to feel Geralt so intimately, to feel his every barest flinch and tiny quiver of muscle, so that even he could feel Geralt’s slow pulse when he pressed his tongue against the raw skin, the feel the warmth and throb in his raw, tender skin.</p><p>He kept at it until he could fit his tongue well inside him, lick deep into him and feel him shudder, the muscles quivering and clenching down, lave his tongue over him and press and feel Geralt’s swollen tissues part for him, the way he shuddered and moaned, rocking his knees deeper into the bed, shifting and shivering, his muscles clenching and then relaxing.  He teased him with a scrape of his teeth, bit lightly at Geralt’s raw flesh until he gave a desperate flinch, his whole back flexing and hips giving a desperate little abortive buck at the pain, and Geralt gave a loud not-quite-yell of a grunt into the bed.  Only then did Jaskier press a kiss against Geralt’s raw, wet hole, soft and sweet, then another, a soft purse of his lips, a gentle, lingering pass of his mouth, and pull back, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand as he slid his other hand up to press his thumb against that sensitive place.</p><p>Geralt flinched, let out a long low shaking, shuddering breath, a low groan, against the bed, as Jaskier kept up the pressure there, feeling how hot and wet he was, that hot tender place spreading just a little beneath the pressure, slick and sticky-slippery under his thumb.  He straightened up and squeezed at Geralt’s fingers, rubbed his palm over his hip, catching his own breath a little dizzily, as he reached over Geralt for the oils and supplies he’d left on the chair, working his thumb deeper into him over the plush, swollen flesh of his sore opening, the slick, sticky slide of his own saliva, as he did.  Geralt was groaning on every breath.  Jaskier reached for the flask of vodka first, took a little swallow and sloshed it around his mouth, then spat it out in the bowl he’d used earlier, before he swallowed the rest of what was left of it in one burning gulp.  Geralt himself didn’t give a monkey’s if Jaskier kissed his arsehole and then his mouth, but Jaskier wasn’t a great fan of tasting arse on his tongue, even Geralt’s, much as he adored doing it to him.  That done, he patted his fingers against Geralt’s hole, between his cheeks, and took his hand away, trailed a caress over the still hot and red curve of his buttock, teasing circles down over his hip with one finger, as he opened the bottle of sweet almond oil and poured it over his fingers and into his palm, careful to use plenty.  Geralt would have insisted he needed no such consideration, but Jaskier took the time to warm the oil between his palms anyway—he’d seen Geralt’s minute flinches when he’d touched him with cold hands, that amounted to little more than an eyebrow twitch or a flex of muscle.  The witcher was sensitive to things like that, even if he tried to pretend he wouldn’t and didn’t notice one way or the other.</p><p>As it was, he groaned again as soon as Jaskier’s hands both left him, raised his head groggily from the blankets.  His irises had vanished nearly entirely against his dilated pupils, and if someone didn’t know his eyes were golden, they probably wouldn’t have been able to tell.  His long loose hair was a tousled mess, falling forward into his eyes, his face flushed, with an obvious crease across one cheek where he’d been pressing it into the coverlet.  “Jaskier?” he rasped out, looking around as if dazed, eyes mostly shut against the light.</p><p>“Right here, my love,” Jaskier assured him, reaching out with his slightly less oil-covered hand to tilt his chin up toward him.  Geralt struggled up on his elbows to accommodate him, and Jaskier smiled at him in thanks, leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his open mouth, feeling the kiss and bite stung puffiness of his lips, the saliva-slick wetness of them, as he kissed him gently.  When he pulled back, he pressed his lips against Geralt’s cheek, then his shoulder, before he slid his hand down Geralt’s side, gentling him back down into the bed.  He wiped his fingers off on his glorious back and caught Geralt’s hair up in his hand, sweeping it out of his face and back over his shoulder, before he scooted down the bed a bit to get a better look at what he was doing, trailing his hand down Geralt’s side and over the reddened skin of his buttock as he went, feeling his warmth, how much hotter the abused skin of his arse and thighs were than the rest of him, warmth radiating off them against Jaskier’s fingers.  Geralt let out a breath against the bed.  “I’ve got you,” Jaskier murmured.  He held Geralt’s hip with one hand as he trailed his fingers over his arse cheek and slid them up the crease between, where he was sore and raw, still enough to flinch and breathe out hard, knee biting in against the bed, still slick and sticky when Jaskier touched him there, even before he pressed his first finger in against Geralt’s hole.</p><p>Geralt let his breath out in a long, harsh <em>haaa</em> against the bed, and his hand clenched into a fist in the coverlet where it was resting under his head.  He was awfully swollen, raw and tight, hot under his finger, and despite Jaskier’s earlier attentions and the wet slide of warm oil all over his fingers, it was a challenge to part the tight clench of Geralt’s muscle and press inside.</p><p>“Now, Geralt, love,” Jaskier said, keeping his voice light and teasing, rubbing his thumb against the hot curve of Geralt’s arse cheek, right there beside where his finger teased against Geralt’s opening, “you can relax for me, can’t you?  Let me in?  I know you’d dearly love for me to fuck you, and trust me, I long to, and while my cock isn’t as prodigious as yours, it is quite a bit larger in girth than my finger.”  He stroked his fingers along Geralt’s reddened arse, up to the dip of his spine, rubbing gently with his thumb and circling his finger on his flinching hole.  “Just let me in, Geralt.”</p><p>Geralt’s fingers were digging into the bed now, and he was panting.  He groaned and pressed his forehead down against the bed, his shoulders flinching.  Jaskier reached up and held onto the closer one, rubbing his thumb in slow circles, and covering Geralt’s raw skin, between his cheeks, with the sweet-smelling oil all over his other hand, until he was dripping.  He let go of Geralt just long enough to pick up the bottle, cover his hand in more, letting it warm, too, then went back to holding his shoulder steadily, working his finger against him, stroking and teasing.  Finally, Geralt let out a low, breathless moan, a shudder going all the way down his back, into his arse and down his thighs, before he breathed out again and his muscles relaxed, giving way all at once, and Jaskier could actually press into him despite what had to be the shuddering ache of the flesh he’d already abused, left swollen and hot with blood.</p><p>“There you are, my sweet,” Jaskier said, brightly, warm and loving, rubbing at Geralt’s shoulder as his finger finally sank into him.  Goddess, but he was hot inside, all clenching muscle and shuddering heat even with the slickness of oil to ease the way.  “More to the point, there <em>I</em> am.”</p><p>The annoyed sounding, heavy gust of breath Geralt let out as he groaned and shifted his hips, turning his head to press his cheek against his arm, was incredibly endearing, somehow.</p><p>“Are you doing all right?” Jaskier asked.  “Grunt louder or slap me or something if you’re not.”</p><p>Geralt just let his eyes flutter closed, turned his face further into the bed, closing his mouth.  The signal was clear enough.</p><p>“So, you’re quite all right, Jaskier, stop asking, get on with it, yes, I know,” Jaskier said.  He leaned down, let himself recline on his side, against Geralt and into his warmth and the warm place his body had made in the bed, pressing his finger into him more insistently.  He was still being gentle, as he stroked into Geralt—he could afford to be, now; Geralt was already so raw and sore that Jaskier didn’t need to keep up the hurt for there to be pain.  His abused flesh would provide that all on its own, and the gentleness in the way Jaskier was fingering into him now would only prolong it.  It was incredibly heady, though, the way Geralt would flinch and shudder every few seconds, the way his body quivered, alive with every touch, to the point Jaskier felt almost guilty for how he reveled in it as he pressed gentle kisses to Geralt’s shoulder, lingering over his skin with dragging lips and soft brushes of his teeth and wet tongue.</p><p>Geralt’s fingers eventually crept down into his hair, curling awkward into it, and he could feel the man’s nose, his warm breath against the top of his head, the dampness of it in his hair, and knew he was breathing in the scent of him.  He pressed his finger in further, moving it in and out now, spreading the oil around, a long, slow, gentle mimicry of fucking, as he pressed a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow at the base of Geralt’s throat, then brushed further kisses, gentle and tingling up along his collarbone, letting himself revel in the smell of him, the brush of his skin, his warmth along his cheek, before he rolled himself over and scooted down just a bit more, brushing soft little kisses down over Geralt’s shoulder and back as he did, rubbing his cheek against his skin, until he propped himself up with one arm, bracing himself at an angle where he could see what he was doing.  Geralt whined a little when Jaskier moved out of easy reach for his fingers, so Jaskier reached up and curled his hand into them, shushing him gently as he did.</p><p>Geralt’s fingers curled around his, warm and a little sweaty, a little hesitant.  If he’d mentioned it, Jaskier was sure Geralt would have yanked his hand away, humiliated by his own need, so he didn’t, instead choosing to press kisses to Geralt’s hip and speak through the gentle pressure of his thumb caressing Geralt’s fingers and over his knuckles.  It made something in his heart ache, go tight and squeeze, to have Geralt reach out to him like that.  He didn’t want to ever do anything to make Geralt think he shouldn’t.  He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against his hip, and had to catch his breath, just at the sweetness of it.</p><p>But he was doing something, and it wouldn’t do to get distracted.  Especially not when doing <em>Geralt</em>.  So Jaskier kept his finger moving, slowly, mostly concentrating on getting Geralt used to the feel of it, slicking him up with the oil until it was an easy slide, if still tight.  He wasn’t trying to work Geralt up into overwhelming pleasure, not just yet, but as always, it seemed overwhelming for the other man all the same—he had pressed his forehead against his forearm, buried his face in the coverlet, and was panting, the muscles of his back jumping and rolling.  Jaskier kissed his hip again, decided he might as well move things along.  He rolled over a little more, braced his elbow and his hip under him to get a better angle, and started looking for the spot inside Geralt that—there.  He knew he got it when Geralt gave a hoarse cry and slid up one knee, the injured leg, half rocked up onto his knee on the other side, pressed his face harder into the bed.</p><p>He always reacted so bloody beautifully, and it made Jaskier’s own cock twitch.  If he hadn’t been actually holding Geralt’s hand, he would have brought a hand down and rubbed at himself, stroked himself a little, but there were priorities and there were <em>priorities</em>.  Instead he squeezed at Geralt’s fingers, rubbed his thumb over the back of his palm a bit more, and set about circling his finger inside that big, glorious body, pressing gently but insistently over that spot that he knew for himself felt so, so very good.</p><p>Geralt grunted, a muffled cry, and pounded his fist against the bed again.  His cock jerked, slapped up against his pelvis with an obscene noise in the quiet room, otherwise filled only with the sound of their breathing, Jaskier’s heaving breaths and Geralt’s breathy noises and low-voiced grunts.  He grunted again, rolled his hips down, twisted them so that his hard wet cock rubbed against the bed.  Jaskier stilled him with the press of his body, under and against him, shoving himself partly under Geralt’s hip.</p><p>“Ah-ah-ah,” he said.  “Not yet, remember?  Wait for me, lovely.  Don’t torture yourself.”</p><p>Geralt growled at him, but he was also shaking under Jaskier’s touch, against the bed, his eyes glazed and his mouth slack and vulnerable, fingers trembling almost imperceptibly against Jaskier’s.  Jaskier squeezed his hand again, curled himself around Geralt, linking his ankle over his and letting his own cock rub up against the scratchy-soft hair on Geralt’s leg, against his warm muscle, just a bit, letting his hips rock to push himself into Geralt, along his thigh, hitching his shirt up around his waist to give himself some room.  He could feel the flush of heat that swept over him, down his spine, pooling in his belly, his spine, his cock and groin, felt his own length go hot and rigid against Geralt’s skin and start getting sticky and wet with the leaking fluid of his desire, enough that the slightly dry burn and the hitch of flesh along Geralt’s hair and skin grew easier and easier into a hot slick slide.  His cock was aching, with heat and want, and Jaskier couldn’t resist letting his eyes falling closed, just letting himself feel the friction and heat and slickness, Geralt’s strong muscles, letting the pleasure take him over so his head tipped back and he groaned.  He was deeply, dizzily aware of how he was smearing himself wet and hot over Geralt’s skin, leaving him marked with himself, and the knowledge tingled through him, under his skin, like a buzzy heat.</p><p>Geralt moaned, as if his cock was the one getting sudden attention, and he bent his head down, pressed his hot face against Jaskier’s hand, pressed his nose hard against the pulse in his wrist, where the skin was thinner, more vulnerable.  His other hand came down and curled into Jaskier’s hair again.  He didn’t pull, just held to him, fingers curling in.  Jaskier had to swallow as a wash of heat swept over him, making his cock jerk and his insides melt into helpless warmth and his eyes sting all in the same moment.  “I have you, love,” he murmured, squeezing Geralt’s fingers again, rubbing his thumb over the humid sweaty skin, the big scarred knuckles.  “I’m right here.”  Extremely soppy, that, and he knew it, but he didn’t much care.  Geralt deserved all the soppiness he could take, even if he growled and hunched his shoulders against it like a big puppy not sure if he was allowed to accept it or not or if he were to be beaten for making a mess instead.  His poor, sweet wolf.</p><p>Geralt just grunted in response, but he nuzzled in closer against Jaskier’s wrist, pressed his lips to his pulse, messy and hot, wet, then his cheek.  He was panting.</p><p>“I’m right here,” Jaskier murmured, again.  “So very, very good for me, Geralt.”  He was slicking up his other fingers in the oil dripping along Geralt’s crease, down over his balls, leaving him all slick and silky wherever he touched over his raw skin.  He knew it still hurt Geralt, but it was obscenely easy to rub his slick fingers over the hot skin now, luxuriating in the feel and feeling Geralt flinch and shudder out a long, low breath.  Jaskier’s gentle teasing of the sweet spot inside Geralt that brought so much pleasure with it had had the intended effect, though—Geralt had relaxed just enough, with the teasing pleasure making him shake and shiver and whine, his muscles going loose, easing up enough that it wasn’t nearly as difficult to work the second finger into him as it had been the first.  “Does that hurt?” he asked.  He could feel how hot and swollen Geralt’s hole still was against the heel of his palm, knew he had to hurt.  “Be honest, my dear.”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt grunted out against his wrist, with a puff of warm, damp breath.  He was shuddering so, spreading his legs with a desperate need, almost clumsy when he was almost never clumsy, over the bed, widening the spread of his thighs and his knees.  Jaskier rewarded him by sliding his fingers into him even further, feeling his tight heat, clenched down tight and raw, friction-tight except for the slick slide of the oil within him, feeling the way Geralt gasped wet against Jaskier’s wrist and pressed in closer against him, mouth hot, and at the same time clenched down, muscles working in short smooth motions, around his fingers.  He felt so hot, so overused already, muscles tight against his fingers.</p><p>“And is it too much?” Jaskier asked, teasingly light, as he knew perfectly well that it wasn’t.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Geralt bit out, against the bed and Jaskier’s skin.  “No, Jask.  Please.”  Panting breaths that turned into a low whine as Jaskier twisted both fingers inside him, curling them to stretch him gently, circling the pads of them against Geralt just where he was so sensitive inside, able to find it unerringly now that he’d sought out that place.  With him slicked up it was almost an easy slide, despite his tightness.  “More,” Geralt groaned into the bed, and he almost sounded as if he were grinding his throat raw, gravelly and rough, almost as if he’d begin to sob in another moment, his breaths hard and harsh and wet.  He wouldn’t, Jaskier knew that, but his voice was a wreck, a ruin, desperate and hard.</p><p>“Oh, I’ll give you more, witcher,” Jaskier said, warm and knowing, and bit lightly at the skin of Geralt’s back.  His response was a little gasp that sounded pleased, a shiver all the way down his vast supply of back muscles, and Jaskier couldn’t help the warmth and pleasure that went through him at that.  He didn’t plan to take a great length of time lingering over preparing Geralt, though he would have loved to, and had, in the past, lingered over working him open, fingering him gently, getting him slick and dripping with oil, making him come before he ever pressed inside him—but he thought Geralt found that even more difficult than being opened and taken and pleasured at all, being spread open slick and wide, dripping and easy and exposed, so that Jaskier could thrust deep into him all at once, a warm easy slide.  It made him give sobbing breaths into his arms or hide his face or his fists and arm muscles bunch up like he would fight it off with blows, the sweet slick easy softness of being taken like that, and by the end of it he always looked dizzy and dazed and pulled apart, stumbling and clumsy like he got after a hard fight, like he’d been beaten to a pulp and gutted rather than fucked slowly and gently and with all the infinite care Jaskier could find in himself to take, gasping and hazy and gone off somewhere far away, and needing Jaskier to speak to him softly and touch him gently as he buried his face in his own arms or against Jaskier’s chest and panted for breath like Jaskier hardly ever saw him do after an actual fight.  It tore him to pieces.  It destroyed him.</p><p>And he didn’t want Geralt to be rent so open tonight, to feel so exposed and taken and bare, not when he was already so battered and bruised, in spirit far more than in body.  He wanted to get him there, of course, the softness after, the being soothed and held and warm in his arms, but he wanted to get him there in some way that was easier for him to take than the warm gentleness he struggled so to accept.  He didn’t want him feeling like Jaskier had taken his weakness and shame and used it as a lever to batter him open even farther with softness, rip him open with velvet fingers and take what he wanted, leaving Geralt bleeding open and exposed.  Never that.</p><p>Yes, he’d thought about this rather a lot.  Geralt always liked to pretend he didn’t need anything, so one of them had to.  Had to take care, and take Geralt’s feelings into account, for all he claimed they didn’t exist and got flustered and upset when Jaskier insisted that they did.  Which rather put the lie to that whole proposition, really, but Geralt would just insist that he wasn’t flustered or upset if he mentioned it, so there was no use pointing that out to him.</p><p>He teased his third finger along Geralt’s crease, through the dripping sweet oil, against his hole, scraping his nail gently, carefully, along the ring of muscle, swollen and inflamed, and he let out a hoarse, breathy rasp, shuddered, legs flexing so that his knees rocked into the bed.  “Would you like another?” he teased, pressing his lips, his cheek, against Geralt’s skin, teasing that third finger against him, against the two slick fingers already inside him, alternating his nail and the press of the pad of it against Geralt’s sore hole.  “Or are you ready for me, witcher?”</p><p>Geralt groaned, moaned against his arm, rolled his head along it, fingers tightening around Jaskier’s and in his hair.  “Jas,” he moaned.</p><p>“Yes, Geralt?” Jaskier asked brightly, licking at Geralt’s sweaty skin beneath his cheek, flicking his tongue against it lightly, even as his chest softened inside, melted, grew hot and soft, at that pet name.  Geralt sometimes called him <em>Jask</em> outside of bed or other intimate moments, a nickname many people used for Jaskier, including himself, but <em>Jas</em>, no, that was something Geralt had begun to use all on his own, and only in bed, when things were most intimate between the two of them.  It never failed to melt Jaskier entirely, to make something warm and fluttering and light and almost painful take up residence somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.  “Would you like something?”</p><p>“<em>P-please</em>,” Geralt groaned, tossing his head against his arm.</p><p>“Please what?” Jaskier asked, purposefully tormenting, purposefully slow.  He slid his third slickened finger into Geralt, past the swollen, hot, inflamed muscle and into him, pressing deep, not harshly but firmly, and all at once, despite the resistance offered by Geralt’s tight, clutching body.  Geralt gasped, made a grunting, groaning noise in his throat, and his body went tight, his muscles coiling inward, his body clenching down on Jaskier’s slick fingers inside him so that he could hardly move them.  Geralt was gasping, hard.  “Is that it, is that what you were wanting, my hungry wolf?”  He pulled all three fingers out of Geralt, and he gave a needy, whining moan, spread his legs a little more, looked up at him a little frantically over his shoulder, with pleading in his dilated eyes, his mouth open and wet.  Jaskier flicked his loosened hole gently with one finger, feeling the slick swollen ache of him, and Geralt whimpered, rocked forward onto his forearm and pressed his arse up in the air as if in offering.  “Or is it something else entirely?” Jaskier asked, making his voice a warm, husky, knowing purr.  He brought Geralt’s hand up to his lips, pressed his lips to his knuckles, then laid his hand back down, disentangling their fingers regretfully as he reached for the oil with that hand, using the other to tease and trace Geralt’s slicked-up entrance.  He pushed the tips of his three fingers back into him, moved them in slow circles, just to keep Geralt from being entirely empty, and so that he couldn’t clench down entirely, close himself up again, out of anxiety or anticipation or even nerves.  His body was still so hot inside that it was almost like holding his hand over a flame.</p><p>Geralt whined.  “Jas,” he said again.  “Jas, Jask, Jaskier, please.”</p><p>“Yes, lovely, beg me,” Jaskier said, waggling his fingers inside Geralt until the witcher gasped, brought his head up off his arm to throw his head back, then pushed his face down and into his arm again, biting at his own skin to muffle himself.  “You can do that absolutely as much as you would like.  Love to hear you beg for me, my pretty wolf.”  Jaskier thumbed the loose cork out of the bottle of oil, and sat up, poured a good measure of it directly on his own cock, then set it aside on the chair again, reaching down to spread it over himself.  It was almost overwhelming, the instant blaze of pleasure, as he closed his hand around himself, stroked the oil down over his length, all the warm pleasurable slick friction of his hand passing down his length, and he groaned, let himself rock his hips into his hand just for a moment.  Oh, that felt good.  “Mmm,” he let himself groan, let his head tip back.  “Goddess, that’s lovely.”</p><p>He was doing it partly because giving himself some pleasure after depriving himself any real touch for so long was a treat that was hard to deny himself at this point, partly to make sure he was ready to press into Geralt easily, and partly to drive Geralt out of his mind.  It was successful on all three counts—it felt lovely, as he twisted his own lightly callused palm over the head of his cock, rubbed it just where he liked it, then smoothed his palm and fingers back down in a loose ring to spread the oil over himself, it left him hard as a fence pole and dripping, and Geralt lifted his head, gave a despairing moan, and reached out and grabbed at Jaskier’s wrist, his knee.  “No, Jas,” he slurred out.  “In me.  Use me.”  He took a deep, vulnerable, choking, hitching breath.</p><p>“Hmmm,” Jaskier said, pretending to mull it over, letting his head tilt to the side, as he pleasured himself with oil-slick strokes of his hand, letting himself groan and gasp breathily and moan, soft and throaty, as much as he wanted to, and then even more.  “Are you sure that’s what you want, my dear?”  He laid off stroking himself, just holding his cock with his hand cupped around his length, to tease Geralt gently with little strokes of the fingers inside him, rubbing, curling, then tapping at his inner walls.  “My cock against, inside, your sore little hole?  Won’t that hurt?”</p><p>“Yes, <em>please</em>,” Geralt moaned.  “Jas. Please.”  The pleading sounded torn out of him, his voice a broken rasp.  He rocked his hips, spread his gorgeous thighs a little wider.  “Better’n your hand,” he said breathlessly, desperately, earnest and imploring.  “I—I could be.”</p><p>“Oh, I <em>know</em> you are,” Jaskier said at once, all honest want and fondness, let it rasp in his voice with the force of his want.  “You’re always so, so good, Geralt.  You always feel so good.”</p><p>Geralt whined at that, and his hand clenched in the covers, up near his face, as he whimpered open-mouthed, pressed his face into the bed, shaking and shuddering all the way down his back, which was starting to flush, enough that his bandages stood out against the hot skin.  “Want to please you,” he muttered gruffly into the blankets, shoulders bunching into tight knots.</p><p>That got Jaskier’s hand off himself, and he smoothed it, oil-slick and slippery, over Geralt’s shoulders, instead, stroking gently, rubbing until they began to relax again.  “Oh, you <em>are</em> pleasing me, sweetheart,” he murmured.  “And once I’m inside you, I know quite intimately how very pleasing you are.  Going to make me come, love?”  He didn’t wait for an answer, just swung one leg over Geralt’s, not removing his fingers inside him.  He waggled them instead, rubbing and curling them until Geralt’s breath came in a shout, then pulling them free.  He used both hands to slick himself up this time, then spread Geralt’s cheeks with one and cupped himself with the other as he pressed himself up against Geralt’s hot opening, took a steadying breath, and pushed his way in, bullying past the tight, sore, hot ring of muscle only unwillingly worked open by his fingers, rocking in his hips until he was at least part of the way inside him, all without much warning.  It worked better for Geralt that way.  The heat and tightness around his cock was dizzying, though, making Jaskier’s whole body flush hot with pleasure, and he had to brace himself on Geralt’s back, careful to avoid his bandages, panting with pure amazement at just <em>how good</em> that could feel, pleasure lighting him up all the way down his cock and into his spine, down his legs, which were trembling.  “Oh, <em>Geralt</em>,” he groaned breathily.  “Oh, that’s so good.  You’re so good.”  Gods, he was so <em>hot</em> inside.</p><p>Geralt whined, desperate and far back in his throat, tugged at the blankets above his head, twisting his hand in them into a fist, shuddered under him.  He moaned, mouthed at the side of his own hand, against the heel of it, the pad, his thumb, bit inward as his knuckles flexed, and his body rippled, easing up around Jaskier.</p><p>“Oh, good boy,” Jaskier said breathlessly.  “What a dream you are.”  He rocked his hips back, forward again, getting a feel for it, for the hot slick welcome and tightness of Geralt inside, for how much give he had within Geralt’s body, having to hold on with both hands just to keep hold of himself, and not get swept away by the pleasure of feeling Geralt around him, the slick sweet slide, the blessed, perfect friction of Geralt relaxing just enough to let him really thrust.  He braced both his hands on Geralt’s hips, rubbing his thumbs up over his hip bones, and centered himself, let his head tip forward and caught his breath, before he pulled back, making Geralt suck in his breath hard, just enough to push forward again, putting enough strength behind it to thrust into him all the way, to the root of his cock.</p><p>The pleasure of it took him like a blow, leaving him dazed and panting, seeing stars, aware that he was letting saliva slip out of his mouth and over his chin and jaw even as he bit at his lip to try to keep it back, unable to keep back his moan or stop the arch of his back.  He fell forward, let his forehead dip onto Geralt’s shoulder, gasping, and in the same moment, he became aware of Geralt’s guttural groan, almost a shout, the way his body flexed and bucked under him, going hot, clenching down and rippling, the gasping near-sob Geralt gave as he rocked forward and went down, hard, flat on the bed, so heavily the slats and the legs of it groaned.  He’d come, Jaskier realized, just like that, just from a single thrust, Jaskier sliding home within him.</p><p>Well, hardly just that, Jaskier thought a moment later, being fair, through the haze of pleasure that had him caught so deeply within it; Geralt had been on edge for minutes, for ages, he must have been dying to come, struggling not to, and now Jaskier was finally in him, finally fucking him, so he was <em>allowed</em>, just as Jaskier had told him.  Goddess, but he was good for Jaskier.  He pressed a kiss to Geralt’s shoulder, finding one of his many scars seaming the sweat-damp flesh under his lips.</p><p>Geralt was rocking his hips, grinding them into the bed, riding out his orgasm, and Jaskier hurried to get his knees under him so he could move with him, rock gently into him, pressing his forehead to his shoulder.  “Good boy, oh, you’re so good, Geralt,” Jaskier praised him breathlessly, overcome with sincere praise so it just welled out of him.  “You’re so good, so obedient, darling, holding off until I was inside you, just like I commanded; you did it, just as I told you, didn’t you, dear heart?  I’m so proud of you, love, you did <em>so </em>well, did that feel good?  Just let yourself feel it, that’s it, sink into it, lovely, feel your pleasure, you earned it, being my good boy, just for me, such a good, good boy for me, my love, that’s it—<em>that’s </em>it, rock your hips into the bedspread, just like that, does that feel good?”  He nuzzled up, into Geralt’s hair, took a deep breath, mouthing kisses into the back of his neck, careful not to lay his weight on his wounded back.  “I want you to feel good, lovely,” he gasped, breathlessly, “I want you to feel so good; you held off so wonderfully for me, so beautiful, came on my cock, just like I wanted you to, you’re such a good, good boy for me.  Do I feel that good inside you?  You feel so, so good around me.  You must have been waiting for me, such a good boy.”</p><p>He braced himself against the bed as he spoke, got one hand down, worked it under Geralt’s body until he could find his cock, hot and slick from come, radiating heat against his fingers, the thin skin feeling sensitive and tender, hot as a wound under his fingertips.  The wide, heavy weight of him, the thin hot soft skin, was silky-slick with Geralt’s come, still throbbing through his climax, pumping out more over Jaskier’s fingers as he skimmed his fingers over the wide blunt head, smoothed his palm down the shaft, stroking Geralt loosely and slowly, prolonging his peak as Geralt writhed and gasped under him, collapsing into shaking shivers against the bed, rolling his hips desperately in a way that pushed his hot hard length into Jaskier’s palm.  He rubbed his cheek against Geralt’s shoulders, smoothed his hand down his side, scratching his nails gently against and along his ribs, over his hip, stroking his cock with his other hand, rocking into him gently, dragging his mouth along his shoulders and muttering praise into his skin until he felt Geralt going still against the bed with another groan, his hot spend ceasing to spill over Jaskier’s fingers where he stroked them gently against the head, up and down over the shaft.  He brought his fingers away when Geralt started to whine, flexing in his hips and thighs and gripping at the blankets, shoulders working as he dragged his face along the covers, tossing his head against them.</p><p>“I’m going to keep going, my love,” Jaskier told him, pressing himself up a little, squeezing his come-damp hand against Geralt’s hip, so that he shivered.  “Is that all right?  How are you feeling?  Good?  Would you like that?”</p><p>Geralt gave a loose, dazed sounding moan, but it wasn’t quite words.  Jaskier rolled his hips just a little, then bit his lip, closed his eyes, as pleasure shot through him, lighting him up like a torch.  He shouldn’t do that until he got Geralt’s word, he decided, even as he felt Geralt quiver and gasp, give another little shuddering grunt beneath him.</p><p>“Geralt?” he prompted, gently.  “Do you need to stop, dearest?”</p><p>“No,” Geralt finally managed in a rough, thick voice.  He sounded utterly wrecked.  “No, Jas, keep, keep going.”</p><p>“You’re sure?” Jaskier said.</p><p>“Sure,” Geralt said, breathless and heavy, sounding absolutely wrecked, dazed and pliant.  “’m sure.”</p><p>“You’re so good for me,” Jaskier said, on a heady breath.  “So good, Geralt, so generous.  I’m so lucky to have you here like this, for me.”  He braced his hand against the bed, squeezed the other on Geralt’s hip, into the reddened skin of his arse, where his muscle was lush and thick, spreading him with the pressure of his thumb into that sore place, and began to move.  He wanted Geralt to come again, just from fucking him; he made up his mind before he started and set his pace slow and easy and even in service of that.  He was firm with himself, about keeping the pace, because he knew soon he’d be feeling so damned good he wouldn’t be thinking at all, but once he’d set a rhythm he wasn’t bad at keeping to it, an unexpected but welcome side effect of his bardic training.  It felt so, so good as he rocked himself out of Geralt’s tight heat, feeling the way his body clutched at him, the friction as he slid out just a bit, pushed back in until he was buried inside of Geralt to the root again.</p><p>Geralt for his part, groaned under him again, shaking in that shuddery way he got when he was well and truly overwhelmed, like a foundered horse, flinching and moaning low through his nose.  Jaskier knew the stimulation in his sore hole, against his sore arse, when he was so very sensitive from his orgasm, had to be both agony and ecstasy, raw and painful.  Geralt both hated and loved being fucked like this, when he was like this, Jaskier knew that, too, and he was determined to oblige him.  He let himself thrust a few times, feeling the warm wash of pleasure again as it swept over him, dizzying and all-encompassing, the heat and need of it building in his balls, then he stilled, adjusted his angle, then gave another slow thrust.</p><p>This time, when he slid in, Geralt gave a little yelping moan and clutched at the blankets so hard Jaskier heard another one rip.  There.  That was it, then.  Jaskier slid out and back in—gods, so, so good—at the same angle, just to make sure, and Geralt gave a strangled, whimpering little cry, his chest heaving, so—yes.  He seemed to be in the right place. Jaskier made sure he was braced solidly against the bed with his knees and his calves, then gave a deeper thrust, pulling out of Geralt nearly entirely before he pushed back into him with a will.</p><p>He knew Geralt liked this, yearned for it, even, to be overstimulated, overused, but he kept some small part of his mind on him, on his reactions, all the same, in case he gave any sign he needed to stop, something apart from the shivering and bucking and wild noises he usually made when Jaskier had him like this, legs trembling even as he pushed back into Jaskier, both arms coming up now so that he could press his forearms into the bed on either side of his head.  Not that Geralt <em>couldn’t</em> throw him off if he had needed to, but Jaskier knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t, too concerned about hurting Jaskier and too convinced he deserved whatever he got to let himself resist.  It was a heady, sobering feeling, being so responsible for Geralt’s wellbeing, in all of his strength and durability and experience, and it was one Jaskier took deathly seriously, much as he teased and laughed and taunted Geralt into growling at him.</p><p>It was feeling very, <em>very</em> good now—Geralt always felt so good, and when Jaskier was inside him like this, his thoughts fractured rapidly, and it was all he could do to hang onto the shards and shattered pieces of his composure, his control.  He knew he was babbling, his lips spilling praise, he couldn’t help himself, even as his hands slid up and down soft over Geralt’s sides.  The urge to stroke and pet him was hard to resist, even as his legs began to tremble and he had to brace himself with one hand again as he snapped his hips hard into Geralt, up against the firm hard curve of his arse, hearing Geralt hiss out a tight breath every time he did.  He knew how sore his arse was, but he also knew that the last thing Geralt would have wanted was for him to hold back, to spare him that pain; he’d probably been trembling in anticipation of it for long minutes, and Jaskier wasn’t about to disappoint him.  He just clutched at Geralt’s hip and braced himself on the bed and let go of all sense of himself, of the world, of everything but Geralt, his warmth and his tightness, how it felt buried deep in Geralt’s receptive, clutching heat.</p><p>Geralt was whining now on every breath, groaning, but he was also shoving himself back, meeting each of Jaskier’s thrusts.  “Oh, good boy,” Jaskier moaned.  “You’re so, so good, Geralt, you’re so wonderful, that’s so perfect for me, oh, you feel so good.”  He rolled his hips, shoved hard into Geralt again, then slowed himself down again with an effort of will, pushing himself back into that easy rhythm he’d set.  Geralt growled, gave an impatient sounding grunt, but Jaskier wouldn’t be swayed; he kept to it, stroking one hand over Geralt’s hip as he did.  Gods, he felt good, the pressure and heat around his cock were exquisite, as always with Geralt.  He was so good, clenched down so beautifully, moved with Jaskier’s every thrust, even as out of his head as he was now.  “You’re so good, sweetheart,” Jaskier moaned, his voice half broken by the pleasure, had to tangle his hand in Geralt’s hair, just to hold onto him, and Geralt moaned happily, the back of his neck and his shoulders flushing.</p><p>Jaskier kept caressing his hip, playing with and tugging on his hair with the arm bracing him against the bed, thrusting into him in that slow rhythm, stringing himself along, too, losing himself almost entirely in the pleasure of it, in the feeling of Geralt so perfect around him, of the two of them joined like this, so intimately connected, so perfect in the pleasure of it, the joy of it.  Geralt was gasping now, with every thrust, his body shaking, and Jaskier knew the slow pace was just as overwhelming for him, too.  The witcher was rocking in his hips so that his cock swung, hot and hard again already, between his legs, slapped up against his pelvis then swung back down, dragged by its own impressive weight.  Jaskier centered himself again, made his thrusts slow even more, carefully dragging himself over Geralt’s sweet spot inside, making sure his cock kissed up against it, tormenting himself, too, with the pleasure, incredible, overwhelming, until he had to close his eyes and take deep breaths.  “So good,” he whispered, ghosting one hand over Geralt’s hip.  “So, so very good, so sweet for me, Geralt.”</p><p>He thrust deep within Geralt again, groaned at the hot burst of pleasure, knew he was sweating.  His back and thighs were starting to ache, his arms to tremble, but he wasn’t about to stop now.  Jaskier was working himself up slowly, too; he could feel himself getting hotter and hotter, more and more flushed, hair sticking to the back of his neck and his forehead with the sweat trickling down his spine under his shirt, as he dedicated himself to keeping his pace, edging himself slowly up into greater and greater heights of pleasure, making himself wait and gasp with it.  Geralt’s body was such a beautiful gift, and he didn’t want to come too soon and waste the gift of it; he wanted to give himself time to enjoy it, enjoy <em>Geralt</em>.  Geralt was squeezing down on him in a way that was blindingly good, breathtaking, but he was sweet and slick enough inside that there was no sense of rawness or chafing now, just that wonderful friction and slide.  Jaskier dragged his nails gently down Geralt’s sides, propped his forehead against his shoulder, and lost himself in pleasure, in love, the world well lost to him now, so there was only Geralt, his mouth open against his shoulder blade, open and wet and drooling as he breathed words of love out into his skin, breathing in the smell of him.</p><p>He could have been there forever and not known it, he was so lost in love, in pleasure, hands on Geralt’s hips and waist and side, but when he slid one hand up to Geralt’s hair and tugged again, Geralt gave a hoarse, harsh, guttural noise and threw his head back, shaking and shuddering around him again, clenching down, internal muscles rippling in a way Jaskier knew well, and sure enough, when he got his hand up under him again, trailing it over hot heavy balls and smooth hard searing hot cock, he was coming yet again, pumping out his spend hot and wet all over Jaskier’s fingers.</p><p>“Melitele, so good, so good for me, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered in his ear, his voice shaking with effort and pleasure and fondness and affectionate love, nuzzling his nose into Geralt’s hair, back behind his ear.  He loved this part, teaching Geralt’s amazing, incredible, adaptable body to be good to Geralt rather than just enabling him to take more and more pain, teaching it how to bring him pleasure, coaxing that pleasure out of him.  “Going to come again for me, dear heart?”  His own soft voice was hoarse in his ears.  “There you go, go on, so good, coming on my cock, such a good boy; didn’t even need for me to touch you, you’re so beautifully, deliciously sensitive, you dear, good, obedient man, my dear sweet love.  You’re so good for me, Geralt, so very good.”</p><p>Geralt gave a harsh, whimpery, gasping breath, far back in his throat and huffing through his nose, tossed his head against the bed, almost shaking it wildly, tucked his head down and moaned.  Jaskier tugged lightly on his hair until he stilled, still stroking his cock with the feather-light touches of his other hand as Geralt came and came, cock throbbing and jerking as he peaked, pumping out spend over his fingers as he teased him.</p><p>“Shh, Geralt, you are good for me,” Jaskier murmured.  “So, so good.”  He kept stroking Geralt, closing his own eyes and floating on the pleasure of Geralt’s body clenching and rippling around him, as he thrust into him with slow rocks of his hips, until he could feel that Geralt’s climax was tapering off, that he was no longer caught in his peak.  He waited until Geralt had ridden out the last waves of his climax, then caught his hip in his hand, wet and slippery with Geralt’s come, and took a deep breath.  He could hear that his voice had gone husky and dropped at least an octave.  “Going to be even better for me, aren’t you, my dearest?” he murmured, stroking Geralt’s hip and thigh.  “Going to make me come now, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Please,” Geralt grunted against the bed, an entreating, desperate note in his voice, so rough he almost wasn’t understandable.  It surprised Jaskier, a little, for he had thought Geralt had gone quiet and unspeaking except for groans and breaths and gasps and sometimes, if he was lucky, Jaskier’s name, the way he got when he was far, far gone in bed.  “Please, Jas, please.  Come inside me.  Use me for, for your, your—to make you feel good.  Please.”  The last was a long groan, as desperate a noise as any Jaskier had heard him make of effort on the field of battle—more.</p><p>“Oh, I am feeling good, sweet man,” Jaskier said in a rush, “I am feeling good, my sweet heart, so, so good, you feel so good around me already, shall I write poetry to the feel of you on my cock, dear one; I would but no words could capture it, at least no words known by this humble bard; I adore you, you are so perfect for me, let me—let me find my pleasure in you, Geralt, you’ll get me there, won’t you?  I know you will.  Come now, take me there, my lovely, you are so wonderful; you’ve been so very good to me already.”</p><p>Geralt whined, deep and low, far back in his throat, and then Jaskier could feel his body clench down around him, felt it as Geralt began to work him, working his muscles inside until they rippled and fluttered all along Jaskier’s cock.  “Oh, darling,” he managed to gasp out, barely aware of what he was saying, pressing his face into Geralt’s back, between his shoulder blades.  “Oh, sweet.  So good.  So, so good.  So perfect.  That’s so good.”</p><p>Geralt groaned, rocked back against him and forward again, and then they were moving together, Jaskier finally chasing his own pleasure, clutching to Geralt, feeling his warmth, his heat all around him, his body holding him close, letting his thrusts speed up just a little.  It didn’t take long for his pleasure to begin to heighten, to crest, until he was utterly lost in it, blazing on the edge.  How long he lingered there, on the very crest of his peak, not quite reaching the height, the summit, not quite tipping over, he didn’t know, but it was glorious, impossibly perfect, impossibly good.  He felt tears starting in his eyes as he lingered, gasping, chasing his pleasure with rolls and snaps of his hips, and then Geralt’s hand was reaching back, big and broad and callused, curling into Jaskier’s hair, cupping the back of his neck, and that was it, that was all Jaskier could handle—he tipped over into ecstasy with a cry of Geralt’s name, reaching up to curl his fingers around Geralt’s wrist as he did, holding on as he panted out his pleasure into Geralt’s skin, mouth open against it.</p><p>Afterward, Jaskier would have sworn he heard the music of the spheres, to anyone who asked.  In the moment, all he could feel was pleasure, all he could see was light, all he could hear was the music of Geralt’s slow, perfect heartbeat, and his own heavy breathing, and everything was perfect.  It was like he was floating; he felt so good, so perfect, such a complete, total release that he found, when he blinked, coming back to himself a little, that he was crying, tears slipping down along his nose, saliva smearing over Geralt’s shoulder.  He hurriedly wiped them away, so that Geralt would hopefully not notice and be worried, pressed a kiss to Geralt’s wrist, against his pulse, nuzzling in against it, breathing unsteadily.  He felt hazy and light and oh, so very good.  He found himself clinging to Geralt, just for a moment, until he got his breath back, gasping.  He realized Geralt was petting his hair, clumsily, just where his fingers reached, curling in it gently, and that, absurdly, made more tears well in his eyes.  He kissed his wrist again, against that slow pulse under his lips, feeling hot in the face and around his eyes, helpless love squeezing in his breast almost painfully, because he knew not what to do with it.</p><p>A moment after that, he hurried to put a hand down and brace himself against the bed, finding all his muscles weak and wobbling, press another kiss to Geralt’s shoulder, realizing that the witcher was rocking his hips against the bed unmistakably—he was hard, again.  But of course.  Another climax would leave Geralt overstimulated and wrung out, which was perfect, and Jaskier desperately wanted to give that to him.  “Geralt,” he whispered.  He ran his hands down Geralt’s sides, hurried to scoot back on his knees.  Geralt was still wet, down below, where they were joined, slicker and wetter even than before with Jaskier’s spend, and it was the work of moments to pull back out of him.  Geralt groaned as he did though, a mournful noise, raised his head, one arm sprawled before him pushing him up, as if to look for him.  Jaskier’s softening cock felt cold in the air of the room, outside of Geralt’s wet heat and pressure.  Geralt moaned, again, and Jaskier hurried to fall on his arse beside him, heedless of any mess, sprawling over the bed, and take Geralt’s hand in his again, pressing a kiss to his hair, the top of his ear.  “Good boy,” he gasped breathlessly, “I’m right here, my love.  Right here.  That was so good.  You made me come so beautifully.  That was—that was incredible, Geralt.  Gods, you always amaze me, every time.”</p><p>He could see the little quirk of a smile that tugged at one side of Geralt’s lips at that, and felt something inside his chest squeeze tight, and melt.  His wolf did so love to please.  He skimmed a hand down over Geralt’s back, a featherlight touch, still avoiding his bandages, gentle as a song.</p><p>“Dear heart, that was incredible,” he said again, his hands dancing all over him, desperate to touch.  He curved his body around him, curled in close, pressed his head to Geralt’s, rubbed his hands up and down his back.  “You’re so good for me; that felt so good, you’re so wonderful, you are, the best, your body could make the spirits weep from jealousy, you get better and better every time, I’d swear to it; you’re so good, my sweet.”</p><p>Geralt whined a little through his nose, reached out clumsily for him, rested his big, heavy hand over Jaskier’s arm, pushing up the sleeve of his shirt.  “Jas,” he slurred.</p><p>“I’m right here,” Jaskier said, instantly, clasping Geralt’s hand with his own.  Geralt grunted, and his hand tightened on Jaskier’s, tilting his head back so he could look up at him with glassy eyes.  Jaskier clasped his hand, brought it up to his lips so he could kiss Geralt’s knuckles, keeping his eyes locked on his, until Geralt went a little red and looked away.  “I noticed you’re plenty interested again,” Jaskier purred, rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s knuckles now.</p><p>“You—you came . . . inside me,” Geralt said, words slow and slurring, breathless and self-conscious and a little defensive, his gaze snapping back to Jaskier’s, pushing himself up against the bed.  “What do you expect?”</p><p>Jaskier smiled at him, leaned in and down against Geralt until he was pushing him over onto his back, and Geralt accommodated him, flushing ever darker as Jaskier fit himself up against him, careful of his injuries but not stopping until their chests were pressed together.  “Exactly that, love,” he said.  “You can flatter me and my cock as much as you like, by the way, and of course I do not expect you to resist my charms.  I am irresistible, after all.”</p><p>Geralt as he usually was would have said something snarky and, in Jaskier’s mind, wholly unnecessary, like <em>let’s not get ahead of ourselves</em>, and smirked at his own joke.  Geralt as he was now just colored, rather prettily and very adorably, Jaskier thought, and turned his face to the side so his hair fell forward into it.</p><p>“My love,” Jaskier said, more softly, leaning in, under his hair, and pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jaw, his cheek, the side of his nose, cupping his chin gently in his fingers and coaxing him back to press a soft breath of a kiss over his mouth, Geralt grunting and leaning into the kiss just a little, “I am thrilled that you’re rampant again for me, trust me.  It is not only deeply flattering, it is exactly what I wanted.”  He caressed Geralt’s cheek and jaw with his hand, the backs of his fingers, then the tips of them.  “Do you imagine I would be anything other than pleased?  I adore how much you give to me, how generous you always are with your beautiful body.”</p><p>Geralt was flushing very deeply now.  He had leaned in, after the kiss, but now he pulled back.  “Greedy,” he mumbled, not meeting Jaskier’s eyes.  “Not—generous.  You’re done, Jask.  You already—you—I don’t—don’t need—”</p><p>“Excuse me, my dear,” Jaskier said, breathing it into Geralt’s ear and along his jaw.  “Who said I was <em>done</em>?”  He shifted, rolled onto his knees and slid one up between Geralt’s, rubbing his leg along Geralt’s hairier one.  “I may have reached my peak,” he told him, huskily, nipping gently at his chin, “but that does not at all mean I’m done with you, Geralt.”  He sat back, pushed Geralt back with three fingers on his chest, imperious as a lord.  “Now lie back, my sweet witcher, and let me have my fill of you.  As you know, I am not easily sated.  How many times have you called me a hedonist?  Well, it was with good reason.  And for you, for you, Geralt, by the gods, I am greedy, I am ravenous, and I am not nearly finished with you yet.”</p><p>Geralt sucked in his breath, staring up at him, eyes wide.  His eyes were pools of black, irises disappeared nearly entirely.  Slowly, he lowered himself back down against the bed, taking a breath as his back pressed into the mattress and he shifted slightly.</p><p>“Comfortable?” Jaskier demanded, cupping Geralt’s flushed cheek with his other hand.</p><p>Geralt nodded jerkily.</p><p>“Back not too sore?” Jaskier asked him warningly.</p><p>“Not too sore,” Geralt said, sounding thick and breathless.</p><p>“Good,” Jaskier told him.  “Good boy.”</p><p>Geralt smiled a little, ducking his head, dark lashes flicking down over his eyes.</p><p>“My <em>very</em> good boy,” Jaskier told him.  He cupped his hand at the back of Geralt’s neck, tangled in his hair, stroked the strong cords of muscle and spine there with his hand, rubbing his fingers in against any muscle that seemed tight or tense, a caress and a massage at once.  Geralt moaned, his eyes fluttered most of the way closed, and his head tipped back, into Jaskier’s hand, against the pillow, on a little breath that made his chest rise and fall, the apple of his throat bob with his swallow.  Jaskier rubbed his thumb against the muscle, the knob of Geralt’s spine, leaned in and kissed him again.</p><p>Geralt groaned into the kiss, his mouth open and eager under Jaskier’s, needy in how he pressed into him, panted into his mouth, tongue soft and wanting against his.  Jaskier kissed him deeply, as deeply as he seemed to be asking for, as he seemed to be needing, making the kiss warm, commanding, ravishing, as best  he could, and heard Geralt gasp and moan into his own mouth, felt it vibrate in his chest as he arched his back, pushed his chest up against Jaskier’s.  For all of the eager heat in Geralt, the desperate need in the way he arched up against Jaskier, the kiss was soft, open-mouthed, breathtaking in its sweetness.  Geralt always kissed Jaskier, no matter how hot or hard or sweetly gentle, with an artless, straightforward honesty that knocked around inside Jaskier’s chest, thumped against his breastbone, and made his throat feel tight, his skin prickle and his hands tremble.  He had had many kisses in his life, so very many, but very few of them had been so incredibly honest.  He braced himself with his elbows, over Geralt’s body so that his weight wouldn’t press on his wounds, slid his other hand up along over Geralt’s shoulder and neck into his hair, and dedicated himself entirely and completely to the kiss for long, dizzying, perfect moments.  To have Geralt like this under him, so breathless and wanting and eager, his mouth so open and sweet and soft, was something Jaskier didn’t think he would ever get his fill of, and he didn’t intend to waste a second of it.</p><p>Geralt’s hands were down beside him in the blankets, fisting loosely and restlessly, bunching in the fabric and then moving up toward Jaskier as if he didn’t know what to do with them before falling to fist in the blankets again.  Jaskier reached down, found Geralt’s strong wrist, rubbing along the inside of it with his thumb, and pulled his hand up, into his own hair, settling Geralt’s broad palm over the curve of his skull, until his fingers curled gently in against the short, tousled strands and held on.  It took a moment, but then Geralt was cupping the back of Jaskier’s head, pulling him into the kiss, leaning up to meet him even more ardently, panting against his lips as he kissed him deeply, open-mouthed, with a desperate intensity.  Jaskier met him full on, kissed him back even more deeply, licking softly over his tongue and against his lips.  He thought he could have kissed Geralt like this forever, probably, especially when Geralt was kissing him like he was then, like his whole world had narrowed down to the touch of Jaskier’s mouth, the taste of his lips, and the witcher knew nothing else.  The sweet passion in the kiss took his breath away, and if Jaskier hadn’t already made up his mind that he owed Geralt another trip to the heights of ecstasy, he might have simply laid down beside him and devoted himself to kissing his sweet, breathless, panting mouth for hours, until the witcher was whining and sweet for him and so caught up in the kiss he’d forgotten his own name, or at least that he was supposed to be from Rivia.</p><p>As it was, however, Jaskier had plans, and, as such, distracting as Geralt was, he didn’t allow himself to be caught up completely in the sweet beauty of the kiss, much as he would have liked to.  After long moments—or an eternity, or an hour, or a year, or a second—Jaskier cupped Geralt’s cheek and jaw tenderly in his hand and moved to pull back and away, kissing the side of Geralt’s lips, the stubbled curve of his jaw, his chin, despite Geralt’s whine and tightening fingers in his hair as he moved away.  He kissed clumsily at Jaskier’s nose, his cheek, his forehead, nuzzling in against his skin.</p><p>Gods, but when he grew sweet like this, Geralt was so very sweet, so very sweet that Jaskier thought at times he would weep with it, and how very lucky he felt to see it.  He tilted his head back up, just enough to brush his lips over Geralt’s again, give him another soft kiss, soft and lingering over his lips, as Geralt moaned and arched up into it, pressing up into it with lips and tongue, until Jaskier licked over Geralt’s warm bottom lip and pressed another kiss to his chin.  He followed it with more kisses under it, along his jaw, down over the witcher’s exposed throat.  Geralt moaned and tilted his head back even further, trembling under him, as Jaskier pressed a gentle kiss to the soft, stubbled skin just under Geralt’s jaw, and his fingers tightened convulsively in Jaskier’s hair, a gentle tug he relished as he licked over the skin.  “So good for me,” he murmured against Geralt’s throat.  “So, so good, Geralt, my love, so good, sweetheart.”  He pressed more wet, soft kisses down over Geralt’s throat, as Geralt moaned again, his mouth sagging open softly, his fingers curling into Jaskier’s hair a little more.  Jaskier’s lips at his throat always seemed to affect Geralt, deeply, made him snarl and shudder or melt entirely, go to liquid in Jaskier’s arms like he was doing now.</p><p>Jaskier pushed Geralt’s head back further, gently, with his nose, kissed down his throat, lingering over every inch of his throat, over the slow beat of his pulse, the gentle scratch of his stubble, until Geralt was whining in the back of his throat.  Jaskier wasn’t even sure he realized he was making the sound as he nuzzled and kissed and licked down further, over Geralt’s collarbone, over the hollow of his throat, where his breaths fluttered like a wild thing, over his strong, broad shoulders.  When he was done licking up the sweat of Geralt’s honest exertion, reveling in the fact he’d gotten him so damp with it, he slid his hands carefully down his sides, gentle over his bandages, and Geralt flinched, as if stung, as if startled, beneath him.  Jaskier smiled and laid his lips over his heart, trailed his fingertips over to circle around Geralt’s raw, swollen nipple, felt it as he jerked, drew in a long, slow breath.  “Would you like me to touch you here, sweet?” he murmured into his skin, dragging his fingertips very, very lightly up along the swollen peak of Geralt’s nipple.  “Where you’re all lovely and sore?  I can be gentle.”</p><p>Geralt grunted, low and rough, deep and instinctive.  “Don’t need gentle,” he slurred out roughly.</p><p>“I can be rough, too,” Jaskier murmured against his skin, hearing his own voice go husky and rough, and he rubbed his thumb, not quite hard, but firm enough, over and around Geralt’s bitten, puffy nipple, even as he pressed gentle kisses over Geralt’s chest, against his skin.  Geralt moaned, and his hand tightened in his hair as his back arched, pressing up into the touch.  It was clear from the way he flushed and panted and gasped, the way his cock thickened up and rubbed insistently along the inside of Jaskier’s thigh, painting a hot, wet tattoo of precome there, that he had enjoyed that very much.  Jaskier rubbed both his thumbs over the hot, swollen points of Geralt’s nipples then, feeling how warm and raw he was to the touch, then tugged at them a little, squeezed, until Geralt gave a loud, choking sort of noise and twisted under him, not quite pulling away, just reacting to the pain, writhing at the sensation.  “Good boy,” Jaskier breathed, softly, over his skin.  “Good man.  My good witcher.  So good for me, so very good for me.  Would you like more, my dear?”</p><p>He didn’t need Geralt’s response, though he made one, an inarticulate moan, pushing his chest up into Jaskier’s hand, to know that that wouldn’t be enough for him, but he waited for it all the same.  Then he squeezed at Geralt’s pectoral muscle, a reassurance that he’d give what he’d asked for, and began to circle his thumbs around the hot, swollen, bitten heat of Geralt’s abused nipples, around the swollen skin and up gently over the peaks.  Geralt flinched as if stung almost every time, especially as Jaskier pressed harder, hard enough to wring new droplets of blood from the bites he’d left there before.</p><p>When he felt Geralt was appropriately sensitized, that his nipples were no doubt glowing sore enough for his taste, Jaskier leaned down, licked over the closest nipple, sucked on the hot peak gently, but with enough force that he tasted Geralt’s blood.  Geralt whined, shuddering, pressed up into his mouth again.  Jaskier hummed with pleasure against his skin and began licking over the poor swollen nub, the bite wound he’d just reopened.  When Geralt began to flinch in earnest, gasping on each breath, he switched to the other and just began to trace his thumb around and over the wet nipple he’d just left, damp and sticky from his saliva.</p><p>He sucked and licked until the already tender flesh felt raw and sore under his tongue, and Geralt was whining as he panted for breath, and there were droplets of blood welling, trickling down Geralt’s chest into his bandages, then he dropped soft kisses over each nipple, turned his head to brush his lips in a kiss over the sensitive inside of Geralt’s elbow, which apparently surprised him into a full body shudder.  Jaskier pressed another kiss between Geralt’s pectorals, smoothing his hands down over the hard muscle of his belly, feeling the waves of twitching, working muscle under his palms as Geralt shuddered and took tight, shaky gasps of air.  He rubbed at Geralt’s hips, stroked his hands down over the outside of his thighs, then up again, smoothing them over the upper part of Geralt’s legs, then over to stroke down the inside of them, rubbing his thumb gently just above his bandage.  Geralt trembled and spread his legs accommodatingly as Jaskier teased him, stroked the pads of his fingers, then the backs of them, gently over his hips and thighs, even as he kissed and nuzzled his way down Geralt’s chest and the flinching, nervy muscles of his belly.  Eventually, he pressed his thumbs in against Geralt’s thighs, the crease of thigh and hip, and then moved one hand up to close it gently around Geralt’s hot, rigid, rampant length.  It jerked in his hand, silky with Geralt’s own spend and precome, dripping wet and radiant with heat.  Geralt made a sound like Jaskier had just punched him in the gut, and his hips flexed needily, pushing his cock up into Jaskier’s hand.  When Jaskier looked up at him, he saw his head was thrown back, eyes closed, his mouth open and wet as he panted, his chest heaving.  He was flushed, all over, a rare sight, and all the lovelier for it.  He was spectacular.</p><p>He was sure Geralt might have expected him to keep moving his mouth ever downwards—that would make sense—but Jaskier lived to be surprising, so he moved down just enough to press soft kisses along the line of Geralt’s hip, down over his upper thigh, brushing his chin along the texture of his leg hair, before he moved back up, pressed a kiss to the inside of Geralt’s hip this time, feeling the slight dampness of his sweat and his skin radiating warmth, there, so intimately, under his lips, then back up to press a line of kisses along his belly, stroking his cock gently, teasingly, with his fingers all the while. Geralt groaned, and his eyes blinked back open, looking down at Jaskier dizzily, a little betrayed, as Jaskier bypassed his cock with his mouth completely and instead teased his tongue over his navel, up over his impressive abdominal muscles, up over the warm heaving muscle of his abdomen. Jaskier smiled up at him, winked, which had Geralt huffing at him, and squeezed his hand on his cock a little more firmly, pressing kisses just under Geralt’s pectorals, swiping his thumb over the broad, thick head of Geralt’s cock until he whimpered and his head fell back, his eyes glazing over, falling near closed.  Jaskier’s hand was dripping wet with Geralt now, even as he licked over his skin, teasing and lapping at his chest. He kept stroking Geralt’s cock as he moved back up to tease and lick over his nipples again, and Geralt gave a strangled noise, neither a gasp nor a shout but somewhere in between.</p><p>Normally Jaskier would have been speaking to Geralt at this point, teasing or praising or simply pouring out his affection, but as his mouth was a little busy, instead he just dropped his other hand to Geralt’s side and let his thumb rub in slow circles against his skin, rubbing gently up and down his side with his palm. Geralt must have understood a bit of what he meant by it, because he responded in kind, in a manner of speaking, tugging on Jaskier’s hair and dropping his hand down to rub his thumb just behind his ear, sweeping it over the back of his neck in a warm rough caress that made a line of warmth start there in the wake of his touch and spread over Jaskier’s entire body, making him shiver.</p><p>So Geralt wasn’t too put out by not receiving a blow yet, Jaskier concluded. If he were, he’d have hardly indulged in caresses along Jaskier’s hairline and ruffling his hair so gently. Pleased, Jaskier gave him another slow stroke of his hand along his cock, then leaned up and began to suck and lick at his hot, sore nipples again. Geralt grunted, moaned, tossed his head against the bed, fingers curling softly in Jaskier’s hair as he kept at it, kept stroking his cock at the same time. After a few moments of that, Geralt was huffing and groaning with clear impatience, arching his back against the bed, digging his heels in, his cock all the hotter and harder, twitching in Jaskier’s grip as he slowly swirled over his thumb over the tip and teased his tongue along the hot, raw flesh of Geralt’s nipple.  Geralt’s hand tugged in Jaskier’s hair, but not insistently or demanding, almost as if he just needed to hold onto him, and it sent a shiver of heat all the way through Jaskier’s body.  It was heady, incredible, to be the steady one for Geralt, the one he needed to hold him together in the storm of his pleasure, even in something like this, or maybe especially in something like this, when they were entangled so intimately.  Jaskier pressed kisses carefully along Geralt’s chest, between his pectorals, around his nipples, before he went back to teasing the nearer one with his tongue.</p><p>He could no doubt have brought Geralt off just with this, stroking his cock and mouthing at his abused nipples, licking and sucking at them softly, if he wanted to take it slowly and carefully, bringing him to the edge again and again until he was desperate.  That was not, actually, what Jaskier planned for that night, but he enjoyed the needy, sore heat of him under his tongue, the warm scrape of his chest hair against his tongue, his lips, the way Geralt gasped and shuddered and jerked under him, the blinding heat of his cock in his hand, slick and silky with his come and need, and he stayed there, lavishing Geralt’s hot, heaving chest in attention, in kisses and bites and sucking licks, for even longer than he’d meant to, let Geralt creep closer and closer to that edge, teasing his tongue over the hot swollen puffiness of his abused nipple, stroking the heat of his cock, until Geralt was panting, huffing his breaths with something between impatience and exertion.  Jaskier stroked at Geralt’s cock all the time, until he could tell by the way Geralt was moaning and his breath was coming what for him was short and fast, that he was teetering just on the edge, and then he moved up, kissed at Geralt’s collarbones and over his shoulders and throat instead, soft and sweet, letting his saliva dry on his nipples, taking him in hand and just holding his cock and teasing him gently with one finger rather than stroking.</p><p>Geralt whined, hoarse and desperate, flinched under him, hands slamming back down the bed and fisting in the coverlet, one foot kicking hard downward into the bed as well, so that it gave a truly alarming creak and Jaskier froze, just for a moment, and braced himself in case he was about to be summarily dropped on his arse on the floor.  The bed didn’t make any more ominous sounds, though, and when he rocked on his knees it seemed solid enough, so he got back to it, tilting his head up to press soft, damp kisses along Geralt’s throat, stroking his belly and chest with his free hand, still holding his cock with the other.  “Jas?” Geralt asked, thick and slurring, and his head slumped to one side, shifted against the bed as if looking for him.</p><p>“Right here, my love,” Jaskier whispered against his chin, and leaned up, feathered a soft, gentle kiss over his lips.  “I told you,” he murmured, pressing little kisses along his Geralt’s soft, wet, open mouth, against the corner of it.  “I’m not nearly ready to be finished with you yet.”</p><p>Geralt whined, reached up for him, clutched at him, both his hands sinking into Jaskier’s hair as he lifted his face up, nuzzled in against Jaskier’s face, his breath hot and damp against his sweaty skin.  “Jas,” he moaned, his low voice hoarse and groaning and barely understandable.</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed.  “I’m right here, just as I said.”  He reached up with his free hand, skimmed it gently down Geralt’s forearm, nuzzling into his touch, against his wrist, leaving kisses there, along his cheeks, against his cheekbone and jaw and the side of his mouth.  Geralt moaned, softly, kissed back dazedly, and Jaskier kissed his forehead, too, nosing tendrils of his hair aside, before he moved back down to his mouth, then lower, his chin, the hollow of his throat, his shuddering shoulders.  He kissed down to his nipples and played at them again with his mouth, his tongue, sucking, licking, getting them nice and sloppy with his spit until Geralt was shuddering, flinching, arching and then subsiding again in the bed, still holding his hot, hard cock very gently, very carefully in his hand, then he began to move downward again, rubbing his cheek teasingly against Geralt’s chest hair as he went.  He pressed kisses along the underside of his pectorals, down his ribs to his navel, around and over it, then lower, over his muscular belly, the lines of his hips, down into his pubic hair, soft and white and wiry, and against the skin on the insides of his thighs.  Geralt moaned as if despairing, arched his back, and Jaskier smiled, turned his head to the side and skimmed his hand up along Geralt’s cock to hold it at the tip, pressing his lips gently to the hot, silky-smooth skin at the side of it.</p><p>Geralt gave a strangled noise, almost a shout, then trembled against the bed, his eyes wide.  “Fuck,” he said, then, “Loud,” almost whimpering, almost whispering, an apology, clearly.</p><p>“Hmm,” Jaskier said.  He wouldn’t get the release from Geralt he craved if the witcher was fretting himself about being too loud for an inn the whole time.  He scrambled out from between Geralt’s legs, cuddled closer to his side, petting his cock gently with his thumb just to distract him a little, despite Geralt’s needy whine and the way the witcher’s hand fell to his shoulder, curled in his hair, as if to keep him close, despite the way it made him feel warm all through.  When he was sure he could reach Geralt’s cock with his mouth from this position, he reached back and covered Geralt’s mouth with his free hand.  “Shall I quiet you, love?” he asked gently.</p><p>Geralt looked up at him with those wide dark glazed eyes, nodded a little, almost eagerly.  His mouth felt soft and wet against the inside of Jaskier’s hand.</p><p>“Good boy,” Jaskier whispered, and shifted again, half leaning on Geralt’s side, careful of his injuries, as he reached out with his other hand to curl it around Geralt’s strong, uninjured thigh, pulling it up and out toward him, bracing himself on it.  “You can cry out if you like.  As much as you like.  I’ll muffle you.”</p><p>Geralt moaned, as if in relief, and his eyes rolled back in his head, fluttered shut.  He relaxed under him, and Jaskier waited for that, then leaned forward and closed his mouth lightly over the tip of Geralt’s hot, rigid prick, sucking softly.  He was careful not to go too hard too fast—he wanted at least a little while of sucking Geralt’s cock before he brought him to his peak again.  Besides which, Geralt’s cock was sizable, and Jaskier had to pace himself, or he’d choke and give Geralt even more of a complex than he already had.  Jaskier knew how it went all too well, considering how his ambitious nature had maybe driven him in the past to push himself harder than he ought, a time or two, and then he’d been punished with Geralt’s worried eyes and carefully restrained touches for the rest of the night, the man stoically expressionless while he clearly tormented himself with guilt for ever touching Jaskier in the first place.  As if Jaskier didn’t adore sucking his massive cock.  Even when he choked on it.  Maybe even especially then, but, considering the importance of his throat to his profession, he couldn’t exactly indulge that too frequently.  Instead he sucked carefully, swirled his tongue around the wide, blunt head of Geralt’s cock, teased it at the slit, tasting the salty flavor of Geralt’s spend from his earlier climaxes, sticky against the thin hot sensitive skin, laved it around and over the hot thick head of him until Geralt’s length was slick and dripping with his spit and Jaskier’s own saliva was spilling sticky down over his chin and out the sides of his mouth already.</p><p>Geralt was moaning and shivering under him, hips jerking and shuddering, not enough that Jaskier found it difficult to move with him, just a little bit, as if he couldn’t keep himself still no matter how he tried.  His cock felt hot and angry and needy, just as well-used as the rest of him, but still eager, twitching under Jaskier’s lips and slapping his upper and lower lip as he pulled off it just enough to look up into Geralt’s face, readjusting his hand over his mouth as Geralt gasped and groaned again under his hand.  Satisfied, Jaskier licked his cock teasingly, laving his tongue over the underside and swirling it around the head, then returned his mouth to Geralt’s length, lapping at the tip, dragging his tongue around and over it, his heat furious against his tongue, as he slid his mouth down over him in earnest, letting it spread his lips wide, open his jaw and drag it down with the weight of it.  He skimmed his hand, his fingertips, down over the shaft of Geralt’s cock, cupped his balls, tugging at them gently, rolling him in his hand, so big and heavy.  Geralt choked, whimpered, arched his back again so that his lovely arse left the bed, made a muffled noise behind Jaskier’s hand before he thudded back down.</p><p>Jaskier moved with him, dragged his head back so that only the head of him was in his mouth, licking and sucking carefully at Geralt’s cockhead, before he slid down over him again.  He didn’t go deep enough have that huge blunt heat flirt with the back of his throat, not yet, but enough that it was broad and heavy over his tongue, and he could taste the way Geralt was leaking, needing and wanting.  When Geralt had calmed enough that he was just panting, his head thrown back and thighs trembling as Jaskier pulled on his balls, he slid his hand down further, his fingers back behind them and down, until he found where Geralt was still sticky and wet from Jaskier’s earlier attentions, his wet sloppy entrance, slick with oil and sticky with Jaskier’s own spend and still swollen from his abuse of it earlier.  He coated two fingers in the oil still dripping out of Geralt and slid them both into the hot, slick heat of him at once, feeling resistance at first when Geralt’s hole flinched, no doubt sore, then a slick easy slide once past the initial flinch.  He bobbed his head, pulled back to suck and tease around Geralt’s cockhead with his tongue, and his witcher cried out again, behind Jaskier’s hand, his whole body lifting so that he was held only by feet and shoulders for a moment before he fell back into the bed, panting, moaning as he twitched and shuddered under Jaskier’s fingers.  He left them there, in Geralt’s slick heat, as he began to suck him with more intent, more focus.</p><p>Geralt squeezed down on him inside, his body tensing and then loosening, and he was panting, loudly, his eyes rolling behind their lids, his mouth hanging open behind Jaskier’s hand, his breath humid and wet and sloppy against his palm, as Jaskier bobbed his head over his massive cock and played him with his fingers inside at the same time, teasing at the spot he knew would make Geralt gasp and shudder, almost sob, with the pleasure, with the overworked sensitivity, so exquisite and so sharp, as overstimulated as he was, it was no doubt on the edge of pain.  Geralt was whining high in the back of his throat, shivering all over, as Jaskier curved his fingers wickedly inward and took him deep into his mouth, until Geralt’s broad cockhead was flirting with the back of his throat and his mouth was stretched open wide, saliva smearing all over his lips and chin and dripping down Geralt’s length, the side of his mouth, because he was too giant for Jaskier to be anything but messy around him.  Jaskier swallowed, once, twice, again, and then pulled back and sucked hard at Geralt’s cockhead again, uncaring of the wet slurping noise or the way slick saliva drooled past his lips.  Geralt gave another loud, desperate noise behind Jaskier’s hand.  He was trying very hard not to, clearly, but his hips rolled, jerking upward.  Jaskier had expected as much and moved back along with Geralt, not pulling off of him, then pressed him back down again with his body, sucked at him with determination.</p><p>Just seeing Geralt react like this made Jaskier feel warm and flushed and aroused all over his body, warmth thrumming under his skin—if he hadn’t already had an incredible climax himself just moments ago, he was sure he’d be fully hard all over again.  As it was, he was halfway there, his loins stirring and warm and his cock throbbing, tender and not quite painful, as he stretched his jaw and swallowed and swallowed around Geralt.  It was easy to fall into a kind of spell, enraptured, caught up in Geralt’s reactions, the heat of him, in his mouth, against his fingers, the rhythm of it all as Jaskier rocked over him, felt his breaths against his hand, worked his mouth up and down his cock, lost himself in Geralt’s gasps and groans and shivers and jerks, the warmth of him on his tongue, around his fingers, against his body, Geralt’s hand in his hair, the soft throb of his own want, the ache of his jaw and the sloppy wetness of his spit as he focused on the task of lavishing Geralt with his tongue.  Geralt had been surprised, the first time Jaskier had offered to suck him off; he still remembered it, far too vividly, the way the witcher’s eyes had widened, and for a moment Jaskier had thought Geralt would shove him away and hadn’t known why, and then Geralt had said, roughly, haltingly, <em>You don’t have to . . . do that</em>, as if he thought it some terrible imposition, looking to one side as if he thought he’d asked too much even by considering it, even though Jaskier had offered.  Jaskier didn’t want Geralt to ever have room for that thought in his head ever again, especially when he himself loved, adored, dreamed of sucking Geralt off, of his mouth on his giant cock, the way it made his jaw ache, the way it made him lightheaded and dizzy because he kept forgetting to breathe.  He was naturally loud in bed, especially when doing something he enjoyed, and it didn’t take much to push that just a little louder, a little <em>more</em>, making his already showy moans even more showy and flamboyant, groaning around Geralt’s cock as if he had his hand on his own or Geralt’s cock inside of him, rubbing his own length against Geralt’s side and hip despite his flinching, wanting, needy sensitivity, because he wanted Geralt to feel that he was hard and leaking with desire as he did this. </p><p>Geralt’s fingers clenched in his hair, and he was moaning, loud and constant, scratchy and breaking, behind Jaskier’s fingers.  Jaskier began to move the fingers he had inside Geralt, stroking and thrusting in a gentle imitation of a fuck, pressing them hard against his sweet spot inside each time, rubbing them in circles around and over it until Geralt panted harshly and made one of those sweet, desperate, near-yells behind his hand, then repeating the whole process.  The sounds it made were slick and wet and sloppy, mingling with the sloppy wet of his mouth on Geralt’s cock, the slick sucking and suction that was so audible even under Jaskier’s and Geralt’s moans mingling in the air.</p><p>Jaskier showed off a little, leaned down and took Geralt full into his throat and moaned around him, and Geralt gave a sharp, aching half shout, arched up and then back down again, and then he was coming, slow and stuttering and almost painful, from the way Geralt was flinching and gasping and shuddering all over like a foundered horse, the come spurting out over Jaskier’s tongue as he slid back slowly to let it, sucking to keep it all in his mouth and swallowing and swallowing, as Geralt shuddered and heaved for breath and made helpless little groans and shuddering little noises and his cock gave stuttering spurts of come out over Jaskier’s tongue.</p><p>He sucked at him more, knuckled and pressed his fingers insistently inside him, pressing and working on that hot, slick, sweet place inside his body, and Geralt’s cock just spurted more and more come down his throat, and he whimpered and cried out behind Jaskier’s hand, his breath hot on his damp palm.  His body was so cooperative, Jaskier thought fondly, hazily, because his mouth was full of Geralt’s cock and his spend and his taste and his own cock was throbbing with it and he felt warm and hazy all over, even as he massaged Geralt inside until he was no doubt tender and raw and his cock continued to spurt down his throat until there was truly nothing else coming.  Jaskier’s mouth was coated and silky with Geralt’s spend, dribbling out of his lips despite himself, as he licked up and around Geralt’s cockhead one last time, as Geralt gave a breath and flinched like he’d been stabbed, whimpering and whining softly, keening through his nose, as Jaskier licked him clean, teasing at his foreskin with his tongue and sliding his tongue gently over the blunt, rounded head, then came off of him at last.  Geralt’s cock felt warm and wet and sticky against his lips as he let it slip free, then took his hand from over Geralt’s mouth and pulled his fingers from his body and leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw.  Jaskier felt hazy, his mouth hot and thrumming from the hard work it had done, his fingers cramping just a little and damp and sticky, his whole face sticky and wet and saliva damp down his neck.  He was so warm, and he felt lightheaded and unsteady.</p><p>A shivering thrill went through him when Geralt turned his head, dizzily and dazedly, almost blindly, seeking his mouth with his own, kissing Jaskier’s parted lips, licking his own spend from them, and his hand slid to the back of Jaskier’s head, pulling him close, cupping the curve of his skull with a sturdy strength despite the clear daze of his climax.  His other hand slid up Jaskier’s back and held him, pulling him in.  Jaskier wasn’t even sure if Geralt was aware of what he was doing so much as operating on instinct, as he swept his tongue into Jaskier’s mouth insistently and sucked on his bottom lip, biting gentle kisses against his mouth, but it was the all more heady for that, made Jaskier moan loud and desperate against his mouth, and shiver all the way down to his toes.  Geralt’s fingers were curling in his hair, scratching gently and bluntly at his scalp.</p><p>They must have kissed for ages and ages.  Jaskier’s lips felt gloriously numb and raw, hot and swollen, when he pulled away, there was a sore patch on one side of his jaw from Geralt’s stubble, and he was dizzy and gasping for breath, his vision hazy and swooping as he sat up and panted for a breath.  Geralt gave a mournful noise, and Jaskier smiled down at him, brushed tangled hair back from his brow, then leaned down and kissed it, gently.  “Right here, my love,” he murmured.</p><p>“Jas,” Geralt mumbled.  His eyes were closed, but his arm tightened around Jaskier’s shoulders and back anyway, and he nuzzled in against Jaskier’s face.</p><p>“Here I am, right here,” Jaskier said, with an overwhelmed, dizzy little chuckle.  “There you are.  Hello, Geralt, lovely.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt mumbled, turning his face to rest in the hollow of Jaskier’s neck and breathing in deeply.  Jaskier smiled a little, fondness welling up inside him, and ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair, gently, detangling it.  Geralt grunted and nuzzled in against Jaskier’s chest and his chest hair, rubbing his cheek and his chin against it and taking deep breaths.  Jaskier petted through his hair, smiling again, and murmuring to him softly, praise and endearments, pressing his face into his hair as Geralt breathed heavily against his chest.</p><p>He had thought Geralt entirely undone, had thought he wasn’t tracking much at all, so it surprised him entirely when Geralt’s big hand smoothed down over his bare hip and down his thigh, then came up between his legs to cup his still hard cock.  He jerked, gave a strangled little yelp, and Geralt smiled against his throat.  “Oh, Geralt, oh, my love,” Jaskier stammered, and Geralt’s big strong callused hand curled around Jaskier’s length and stroked him up and down slowly.  “I don’t know,” Jaskier said, hazily, his voice wobbling on the words, shaking desperately as pleasure curled in his belly, spiked up his spine and gathered in his cock as Geralt stroked him, pulled gently and squeezed at his tip, twisted his palm over the head of him.  “I don’t know if I can come again, love, I—”  He was so dizzy, so hot, all of him flushed with heat as Geralt stroked at his cock, as if Geralt were touching him everywhere.  “I—”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, and pressed a surprisingly soft, delicate, sweet kiss to the hollow of his throat, another against his collarbone.</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier breathed, and shut his eyes, curled his fingers into Geralt’s hair, and gave himself over to the pleasure.  He reached down with one hand and curled it over Geralt’s, stroking himself at the same time Geralt was.  Geralt’s hand was so big and broad and sure and it felt so good, so, so very good.  Jaskier heard himself give another reedy little moan, and Geralt grunted, as if satisfied.</p><p>“That’s it,” he mumbled, barely audible, and pressed closer, licking at the hollow of Jaskier’s throat, up to his chin, even as he tugged at his cock.  The pleasure was all-encompassing now, licking over his skin and curling tight in his belly and coiling in his cock, and Jaskier couldn’t help the urge to rock up, into Geralt’s hand and against his own.  Geralt’s stubble was softly scratchy against his neck and chest, and his breath was warm on his neck and his tongue careful and wet, and he was tugging gently at Jaskier’s hair and his hand was so<em> good</em> on his cock, and Jaskier wasn’t going to last, not at all.</p><p>His pleasure peaked all of a sudden, took him all at once.  Jaskier came with a shuddering, sobbing little cry of Geralt’s name, pressed his free hand to his mouth and panted desperately into Geralt’s hair as he covered his own hand and Geralt’s in his spend, trying to catch most of it.  His vision went dizzy and starry and bright for a moment then, and he was whimpering, almost sobbing, at the pleasure of it as Geralt tugged at his cock a little longer, his big broad warm hand milking it out of him gently, stroking him until Jaskier gave a little desperate keening noise he couldn’t quite keep back, trembling all over with the force of his pleasure, and then Geralt was pulling his hand up to his own mouth and pressing a kiss against the palm of it, the side of it, before he started to lick up Jaskier’s spend, and—oh—oh, Jaskier was lost.  “Oh, Geralt,” he moaned.  “Oh, love, that’s so—that’s so good, that’s so sexy.  You are—you are so sweet.  So good.  So good for me.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt mumbled around his fingers, and the vibration went up through Jaskier’s hand, and he felt like it pulled at something in his chest, behind his breastbone, traveled down to his belly.  Geralt nuzzled against his hand and kept licking, sucking on his fingers.</p><p>That felt so good, it tingled all the way through him, and he shivered against Geralt’s side and fell heavily against his shoulder as Geralt licked come off the side of Jaskier’s hand, all along his fingers, taking each one into his mouth in turn and cleaning it carefully with his tongue, and Jaskier shuddered and watched and whined and bit his lip.  It was almost too sexy to watch.  He pressed his nose against Geralt’s cheek and his lips against his jaw and panted for breath.  When Geralt was done with his hand, fingers damp with his saliva but clean of come, he splayed it, them, trembling, over the side of his face, petting clumsily at his nose with his finger, along the swollen contours of his lips, and pressed his face into his shoulder, sobbing for breath as he tried to get it back.  Geralt pulled him in close, and his hand traveled gently up and down Jaskier’s back.  They were curled up together, entirely entwined.  Geralt’s hair was all around Jaskier’s face, smelling sweetly of lavender oil and sweet almonds, of Geralt’s familiar scent and just a hint of good, honest sweat.  The heel of his hand rested gently in the hollow of Jaskier’s back, under his shirt.</p><p>“So sweet,” Jaskier murmured breathlessly into the side of Geralt’s jaw, the hollow of his neck.  “So good.  Oh, Geralt, so good for me.  Three times, sweetheart, is that enough for you?  Have I satisfied you?”</p><p>Geralt grunted, groaned, gave a long sigh, and pulled Jaskier closer, pressing his face into his hair.</p><p>“Words would be lovely, my dearest, if you can,” Jaskier told him, petting his hair with his cleaner hand, big handfuls of it that he gently finger-combed back out.</p><p>“’m good,” Geralt mumbled, barely more than a thick whisper, and curled himself closer around Jaskier.  Jaskier smiled and pressed up against him, curling into the warm circle of his arms himself.  For a bit, he told himself, just for a bit, as Geralt’s hands slid up and down his back and over his arse, making him shudder, go liquid himself at the warmth, the gentle friction of Geralt’s warm hard palms smoothing over him, the gentle catching of his calluses on his skin, the soft roughness that meant it was <em>Geralt</em> touching him, petting him, caressing him like that.  He thought he might collapse with it, that he might begin to laugh with pure joy or perhaps begin to cry.  There was just so <em>much</em>.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>, yes, you are,” Jaskier murmured, his voice shaky and joyful, the same way he felt as he blinked back headily emotional tears.  He ran his hand over Geralt’s face, leaned in until his forehead was tilted against his temple.  “You are.  You are so very, very good, Geralt, so good for me.  That was so very good.  And you even found your words for me, didn’t you?  So very good for me, Geralt, you are so, so very good.”  He slid his hand down over the side of Geralt’s face, his soft stubble, skimmed it along his jaw, thumbed at his collarbone, pressing close to him.  “So good, dear heart,” he murmured.  “At least, it was good for me; it was so very good for me.  I hope it was as good for you.  Was it, my love?  How do you feel?”</p><p>Geralt gave a huffing little noise that wasn’t quite a laugh and pressed closer.  “Good,” he said.  He sounded dazed and dizzy, still, his voice rough and hoarse and barely understandable, even more so than Jaskier felt.</p><p>“See,” Jaskier murmured, and smiled, pressed a kiss to Geralt’s eyebrow, petted his hair.  “I know how to make it good for you, don’t I, sweetheart?”</p><p>Geralt huffed out through his nose and pulled gently at Jaskier’s hair in return.  “Y’do, Jask,” he mumbled.  “Y’always do.”  He sighed, and curled his big body closer, all around him, holding him with all that warmth and muscle, pressed his face close against Jaskier’s.  His eyes fluttered shut.  He was probably falling asleep.  He usually did, after sex, at least for a while, especially draining, demanding sex like this had been.</p><p>Jaskier just kissed his forehead again, his temple, his brow, pulling his hand gently through the tangle of his hair, and holding him close against his chest and shoulder.  He felt hot again, warm all through, from what Geralt had said.  <em>You always do</em>.  He tried, oh, how he tried.  He always wanted to—to please Geralt, to be pleasing, to make him feel good, when he knew the man so rarely felt good, really good.  He wanted to be trustworthy and enjoyable and pleasant, and, if Geralt said that—maybe some of that was working.  Maybe he really was being good to Geralt, as hard as he tried to be.</p><p>He knew he wasn’t the sort of person a great many people felt <em>safe</em> with, Geralt was the protector, not him, and he always felt wonderfully, deliciously safe in Geralt’s arms, himself, but he tried to be worthy, he tried to be responsible, he tried to take care of whoever he was with, and Geralt—he wanted to be so much more than that for Geralt.  He wanted to be a respite, for him, when people were cruel and the world was so fucking hard and so tiring, and Geralt was so tired, so fucking tired, weary in the way that was more than blood and bone, that went deeper, the way he got, and he wanted to be care and welcome and laughter, teasing and comfort when Geralt got that so rarely, in his life.  He didn’t know how well he succeeded, but he tried so hard, and on nights like this—he’d just wanted to give the witcher something good.  Make him feel better, when Geralt wouldn’t even have admitted how deeply he’d been affected to himself.</p><p>So Jaskier stayed there, and took deep breaths, and pressed kisses over Geralt’s closed eyelids and temples and forehead and the bridge of his nose, and he got to see Geralt scrunch up his nose and smile without opening his eyes in response.  Jaskier grinned and nuzzled closer, stroking Geralt’s hair, and Geralt rewarded him with a soft, easy sigh and by curling closer around him, melting under the touches to his hair the way he did whenever he was relaxed enough to let go, let himself really enjoy having his hair touched and petted, which Jaskier knew he absolutely loved, even if that was another thing he’d never actually admitted out loud.  It was the way his shoulders relaxed, the tension ebbing out of his muscles, the soft sighs he made and the way his eyes fluttered closed, and he’d tip his head back into Jaskier’s hands, soft and pliant and willing, whenever Jaskier washed his hair or brushed or combed it, or braided it for him, or just pet his hair while Geralt lay with his head in his lap, something he was starting to let him do fairly regularly when he overdosed himself with potions and everything was too much, too loud, as a result, something that didn’t happen often, per se, but well, often enough.  But he knew he loved it.  Sometimes, Geralt would even lay his head in his lap with a smile, usually after really fantastic sex, and let Jaskier just pet his hair until all the tension was gone from him, and usually until he was asleep, drooling onto Jaskier’s hip, warm and sweet and completely wonderful.</p><p>Stroking and rubbing his hair was something for him to do, something to make Geralt feel good, and he could feel it as Geralt went utterly boneless against him, smiling a little as he breathed in against Jaskier’s neck, sniffing in the soft little intakes of breath that told Jaskier that he was scenting him and sighing as Jaskier stroked his hair.  Jaskier’s muscles felt wobbly, liquid and sore and weak, especially in his arms, and Jaskier had a feeling he’d be paying for his exertions later, in spades and especially in sore shoulder and arm muscles that were sure to make him feel it when he performed tomorrow night in this very inn, but it was worth it.  It was all worth it.  So very worth it, to have Geralt smiling, and the big rangy muscled bulk of him so relaxed and trusting and utterly loose against him, curled around him like he was.</p><p>He slid his fingers deeper into Geralt’s hair and rubbed gently at his scalp before he trailed them through it again, taking deep breaths and letting himself come down from it, relax back into himself out of the heightened state he’d been in.  It left him feeling weak and wobbly and very, very glad that Geralt had wrapped himself around him so completely, because it meant the doubts about whether he’d been too rough, or too cruel, or if perhaps Geralt would begin to hate him for using him so, had very little room to gain a foothold.  Jaskier just held the witcher closer and kissed him a little more and murmured sweet things across his eyelids and stroked his hair, and Geralt fell asleep still smiling.  It was the best outcome, the best thing, that could possibly have happened, and Jaskier just lay there, smiling at him probably completely dopily, sappily, rubbed one thumb gently across Geralt’s eyelid, pressed another kiss to his brow.  He kept stroking his hair long after he was sure Geralt was asleep.</p><p>Only then did he push himself up, wincing at how played out he felt, how very aware of his back and his shoulders, rubbed a hand through his hair, fluffing it up wildly, and then slid out of the bed, taking care to cover Geralt with the blankets.  He adjusted the witcher’s medallion around Geralt’s neck, skimmed his fingers through his hair again, putting it back in order, and then put his hands on his hips and stretched his back, wincing when it popped.  Gods, he refused to believe he was getting old.  Jaskier leaned forward and put both hands on the floor, satisfied when he could still do it with no difficulty.  Geralt would have told him to stretch his muscles out—if he’d been awake, he’d have made certain Jaskier did it, no doubt, the way he almost always did when Jaskier had been the one receiving after a rough fuck, but he was asleep, so Jaskier just circled his arms once or twice, stretched them out behind him and caught one hand with the other, then did it the other way, then stretched them over his head.  He had things to do.</p><p>He glanced back at Geralt, feeling himself smile again, fond and just—proud of himself, for getting him so relaxed, pleased at the result of their time together, then padded over to the fire in his bare feet, naked except for his shirt.  He swung the water back over it, got out a cup and put in a few pinches of the chamomile, mint, and lavender they kept in a small bag just for this purpose, considered, then got out another and did the same thing, then left the water to heat up.  He cleaned himself up with his bloodstained shirt from earlier, wincing pleasantly, with a fond, pleased, sated, probably stupid private smile, at his extreme sensitivity, the tenderness of his cock and thighs, then shimmied into his trousers, threw his doublet on over his shirt, and left the room to get more water and see about some food.  Geralt was probably feeling better enough to eat something, and it would be good if he ate before they both fell asleep for the night.  Jaskier himself could eat, that was for sure.</p><p>The innkeeper gave him a rather knowing look when he showed up downstairs in his bare feet and tousled hair, but Jaskier had made a career of refusing to be embarrassed and gave him a dazzling smile.  The man had suspected he and Geralt were fucking ever since they’d first arrived, he knew, and now he knew for certain.  Jaskier draped himself over the bar and talked to him, sliding him a silver coin, and watching as the man ducked into the kitchen and spoke to the cook about a meal.</p><p>“So,” the innkeeper said as he came back to the bar with the pitcher full of fresh water Jaskier had requested, and a towel.  “What’s it like?  Bedding a witcher, I mean.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Jaskier said, with a lazy smile and lidded eyes.  “Stupendous.  I couldn’t do it justice in prose, my good man.  That kind of transcendent experience beggars the imagination, and all words seem dull, plodding things, inadequate to the task at hand.  It requires the transformative effects of verse.”</p><p>The innkeeper grunted, but he was grinning.  “That good, eh?” he said.  “Well, you look well-satisfied, don’t you, hey?  Good for you, lad, that’s what I say.”</p><p>Jaskier felt like responding that he was six and thirty, but the man was over forty himself, and Jaskier had long been resigned to his boyish looks resulting in others treating him like a stripling.  Instead he just grinned at the man, letting his toes curl against the floor, remembering how Geralt had looked beneath him, head thrown back, eyes shut, panting, the way it had felt to be inside him, the way Geralt’s hand felt on his cock and the way Geralt looked when he came.  “Well-satisfied indeed,” he said, running a hand back through his hair and waggling his eyebrows.  “But, you know.  This is just between you and me, my friend.  Not for public consumption.  Geralt is a bit . . . hmm.  Well, he’s self-conscious.  He’s just a tad shy.  It’ll only make him awkward.”  And anything that made Geralt more real, more of a person, to this man, to anyone, was something Jaskier saw as a good thing.</p><p>“Mum’s the word,” the man said, laughing, “but anyone looking at you would know what you’ve been up to, laddie.  I’ll send the food up with a girl, aye?”</p><p>Jaskier grinned at him, winked and bent over the man’s hand extravagantly, before he took the pitcher of water and the linen.  “My deepest thanks to you, most excellent of innkeepers,” he said, and took himself off back up the stairs.  He was hoping Geralt would still be asleep when he came back, and he was, though he stirred a little, grunting and blinking dazedly in the light.</p><p>“Just me, Geralt,” Jaskier said, softly.  “Go back to sleep.”</p><p>Geralt grunted more contentedly and his eyes closed again, his brow smoothing out as his face relaxed.  Jaskier just stood there a moment, staring at him fondly, even though he doubted the witcher was entirely asleep now.  Probably just dozing.  He didn’t disturb him, all the same, but brought the water over to the small table.  He shrugged out of his doublet again, tossed it over onto their packs, and poured the now boiling water from before into two cups of herbal tisane he’d set out before, then filled the kettle up again with the fresh water from the pitcher.  He dipped a spare cloth into it and used it to wipe down his face and the front of his chest, around the back of his neck and over his shoulders, patting himself down, then stepped out of his trousers as well and rinsed himself down a little more, between his thighs and over his arse.  Geralt was stirring now, rolling over toward him, and when Jaskier looked up, he was resting his head on one arm, smiling a little, watching him with obvious pleasure through drowsy eyes.  Jaskier smiled at him and winked.  “Like what you see, dear heart?” he asked.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said.</p><p>“I take that as a yes,” Jaskier said, smiling, wadding up the linen and dropping it on the chair before he took the now boiling water off the hearth and poured it into the wash basin.  He folded the fresh linen over the side and tugged the chair after him with his foot, setting it down on top of it just beside the bed as he sat on the edge of it, near Geralt.  He scooted back just enough to make room for Jaskier, so that his hip pressed against Geralt’s belly, and he smiled.  “Thank you, my dear,” he said, reaching down and gently pushing back locks of Geralt’s hair, caressing his brow.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, and his eyes fluttered shut.  He took Jaskier’s wrist in his hand, pressed a kiss to the thin skin above his pulse.  It made Jaskier shiver all over, and he let his fingers go flat in Geralt’s hair, against his head.</p><p>“Oh, Geralt,” he murmured, going warm all through.  “Mmm.  That’s lovely.  You’re so good to me, dear one.”</p><p>Geralt made a little scoffing noise, but he was still smiling, and his eyes still closed, his body still entirely relaxed, so Jaskier wasn’t concerned, even as he traced his fingers over Geralt’s broad shoulder.  He knew, intimately, very, very well, that as good as Geralt was clearly feeling now, it wouldn’t necessarily last.  It took careful work to keep him from dropping out of it hard, into a kind of bleak melancholy and a gray, dreary dullness.  The guilt hit him dreadfully sometimes, after—whether for enjoying this sort of thing, or enjoying Jaskier’s mastery of him, or for simply being weak, or maybe, most awful of all, for feeling this good in the first place, Jaskier wasn’t quite certain.  But he did what he could to stave it off, all the same, to keep Geralt feeling good and floating sweetly on the waters of pleasure and contentment, like he clearly was just now.  As it was, he ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair, gently stroking, pushing his hair behind his ear, and felt even warmer at Geralt’s quiet sigh, the relaxing of his muscles even further.  “I’ll clean you up, if you’re amenable,” Jaskier said, keeping his voice soft and warm and gentle.  Sometimes Geralt preferred, well, not to clean up, so that the scent of their sex lingered on him.  He knew Geralt liked that.  But Jaskier always loved to feel clean and fresh against clean sheets, and he’d like to give that to Geralt tonight, if that was what he wanted.  But only if it was.  That was the problem with Geralt’s whole grunting, monosyllabic routine.  It made figuring out what he wanted most rather difficult.  Sometimes Jaskier thought that was part of the point.  But he wasn’t about to let that stop him from spoiling his witcher.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt grunted.  He apparently wasn’t up to much conversation, Jaskier thought with a fond smile.  He stroked his hand through Geralt’s hair again, down his shoulder, rubbed gently at the strong muscle of his arm.</p><p>“Yes or no would be most instructive, my love,” Jaskier said.</p><p>Geralt smiled, still without opening his eyes.  “Whatever you want, Jask,” he slurred finally, and rolled onto his back, kicking aside the blanket in a clear offer.</p><p>“All right, then,” Jaskier said, smiling at Geralt’s behavior and how comfortable he clearly still was as he wet the linen in the hot water and got to work.  And Geralt <em>was</em> a mess.  He was covered in spend, mostly his own, with blood smeared across his chest and into his chest hair, especially around his nipples, and seed and oil all over his thighs.  Geralt tended to appreciate his spend more when it was on Jaskier rather than himself, so Jaskier doubted he’d mourn the loss too much as he began running the hot cloth over his skin—face first, while the wet cloth was still clean and fresh, pushing Geralt’s hair back out of his face and eyes, cleaning spittle and saliva and any trace of overwhelmed tears, not that he would have ever mentioned such a thing, from Geralt’s skin, murmuring to him all the while about pretty much whatever popped into his head—the lovely color of Geralt’s hair, white as snow and even softer as clean as it was, how good a nice face wash felt, that there was food being brought up for them both, his own favorite foods, the Tancred cycle of epic poems, the public baths in Novigrad, the best hot spring he’d ever been to, whatever.  The witcher sighed, as if in pleasure, tilted his head back as Jaskier smoothed the cloth down over his chin and his throat.  He stroked it over Geralt’s neck, both sides, around the back of it and over his shoulders, then wet it again and moved onto his chest with one last caress of the backs of his fingers down over Geralt’s throat.</p><p>Geralt liked water to be extraordinarily hot, so even though the cloth was a bit hard to hold for Jaskier, and he kept switching hands to handle it with, Geralt was sighing with pleasure and relaxing all the more beneath the heat of it, which was worth any slight discomfort on his part.  He pressed the hot cloth firmly over first one of Geralt’s nipples, then the other, leaving it against them and putting some pressure on, to both ease the pain and heighten the sensation, as well as hopefully help the wounds stay clean of anything before they clotted.  Geralt grunted a little, at that, and his eyes fluttered open just the barest slit.</p><p>“Hello there, sweetheart,” Jaskier said cheerfully.  “Doing well, I hope?  You’ve been being so very good for me.  You did so well, pleased me so much, earlier, and you’re still being so very good now.  I’m so happy at the moment, Geralt.  I hope you’re feeling just as nice.”</p><p>Geralt grunted, but one corner of his mouth quirked up gently, and that was generally a good sign.  Jaskier had learned, eventually, that Geralt liked to hear when Jaskier was happy, even if he acted some of the time like he couldn’t possibly care less, and when they were like this, together, he liked it even more, that it was of vital, utmost importance to him, whether he said that aloud or not, especially when he was soft and floaty and open to him like this.  Jaskier leaned on the hot compress over Geralt’s chest with one arm, leaning in and down to brush a kiss over his lips.  Geralt gave a happy, approving little hum of a noise, and his lips parted for the kiss as he tilted his head into it.  Jaskier kissed him warmly and willingly and deeply, if briefly, lingering gently over his lips, then pulled back and pulled the hot cloth away.  Geralt gave a little noise at that, and Jaskier stroked gently at his chest, over his pectoral, as he wet the cloth again and brought it back, starting to wipe down Geralt’s belly, carefully avoiding his bandages.  Geralt grunted and sighed, his abdominal muscles quivering just a little as Jaskier cleaned them up, stroking him gently as he did.  He was careful to get all the seed and blood out of the hair on his chest and pelvis, knowing himself how much of a pain it could be once it dried.  Geralt hissed and shivered, sweetly and deliciously, when Jaskier moved downward to work the cloth through the hair around his cock, even more careful to get all the spend out of that as he pressed the warm cloth under Geralt’s cock, over his balls and behind, then wrapped it around his prick and carefully circled it with his hand, then slid it up.</p><p>Geralt moaned, his mouth sagging open, as he arched his back, and his eyes fluttered barely open again.  “Jaskier,” he said breathlessly.</p><p>“What?” Jaskier asked, grinning up at him, patting the wet cloth along his cock now.  “I have to get you clean somehow.  Mysteriously, a great deal of the mess is localized around this area and your, ahem, giant masthead.  I wonder why that would be?”</p><p>Geralt flushed slightly and said, “Jaskier,” again, a little too breathless to sound properly growly or disapproving.</p><p>“What?” Jaskier asked.  “Am I not supposed to mention that your erect cock puts the temple spires of Novigrad to shame?  It’s a bit difficult not to notice it, my dear witcher.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt said, sounding both embarrassed and disapproving at the same time, rather mortified.</p><p>“Now, there’s no need for that,” Jaskier told him, gently moving the warm cloth down to wipe gently at the inside of his muscular thighs.  “It’s certainly not as if I find it at all a disadvantage.  In fact, I personally find your cock the most spectacular, the most grandiose, and the most beautiful, not to mention the best handled, I’ve ever come across, so you can get that scowl off your face, witcher.  In fact, it might very well be the subject of my next ode.  In coded language, of course.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt said, his brows snapping together.  He propped himself up on one elbow.</p><p>Jaskier struck a pose of the sort he used when declaiming poetry and said, “Oh, of all the trees in the forest he was the tallest—indeed, standing beside him, any other would feel smallest.  Oh, what luck have I, to have caught this pine’s eye—”</p><p>“Jaskier!” Geralt said, and then, sounding rather surprised by it, “That’s <em>terrible</em>.”</p><p>Jaskier dissolved into laughter.  “Not—not my best work, I admit,” he managed in between chuckles.  He had meant it to be terrible, of course.</p><p>Geralt rubbed at his chin and his mouth, clearly hiding a smile, which meant his goal had been entirely met.</p><p>“All that aside,” Jaskier said brightly, “Your cock is a wonder, Geralt.  It is a work of art, sculpture worthy of the gods, the tool and its wielder both of such prodigious glory that all others simply pale in comparison.”</p><p>“The way you’re talking,” Geralt said, hazily but wryly, “you’d think . . . I’d been fucking <em>you</em>.”</p><p>“You are welcome to praise my cock whenever you like, to whatever extent the spirit moves you,” Jaskier told him.</p><p>Geralt looked at him with an expression that Jaskier would have categorized as sweetly adorable desperation.  “Jask,” he said.</p><p>“Yes?” Jaskier said.  “Well?  How was it, then?”</p><p>“G-good?” Geralt said, haltingly.</p><p>“Okay, good means not bad,” Jaskier said, smiling as he kept gently wiping at Geralt’s messy thighs.  “That’s a start.”</p><p>“Better than.  Than.  Not—not bad,” Geralt muttered.  He had laid back down again and was staring fixedly at the ceiling.  “How do you—you—even—I mean, when it’s your turn to—to—when I fuck you.  How does it even fit?  How do you even fit me inside you?”</p><p>Jaskier grinned.  “With a great deal of practice and undeniable talent,” he said, with a little flick of his hips and a shimmy of his arse that definitely got Geralt’s attention.  “It helps that I’ve always had a taste for a sizable . . . sausage.”</p><p>Geralt choked.</p><p>“But,” Jaskier said.  “We’re not meant to be talking about <em>your</em> cock, magnificent, stunning, as it is, my sweet.  We’re meant to be talking about <em>mine</em>.  Perhaps not as titanic in dimensions—”</p><p>“Plenty big enough,” Geralt said quickly.</p><p>“Ohohoho!” Jaskier said.  “Now we’re getting to it.  It’s <em>plenty big enough</em>.”  He waggled his eyebrows at Geralt.  “Go on, my dear, what else is my cock?”  He soaked the other half of the cloth in his hand in the hot water, knowing that Geralt was a deal hotter inside than a standard human might be, so that this wouldn’t feel too hot to him, would probably be just on the side of warm, and brought it back between his legs, rinsing over his balls before he began to carefully pass it over his still sore-looking, messy hole.  Leaking spend, glossy-slick with oil and streaked with the evidence of Jaskier’s pleasure, it was also still awfully red and swollen.  Geralt had tightened up quickly, but he was still loose enough that Jaskier could work the cloth into him around one finger, not far, just enough to swipe up a little more of the mess.</p><p>Geralt hissed, flinching, his eyelashes fluttering so that Jaskier could see it from his position, and shifted over the bed.  His cock twitched a little, already a little hard from Jaskier’s earlier teasing, and Jaskier smiled.  His poor witcher had to be painfully sensitive.  His overworked, over-sensitized cock was probably both throbbing with pain and want, tender and aching as anything, and inside, well.  He’d gotten Jaskier there often enough—he knew exactly how that felt, except that Geralt always felt <em>more</em>.  More of everything.  He could smell a village from halfway down the road.  (He could smell desire on Jaskier almost before he realized he was hot with it.)  He could hear Jaskier’s heartbeat from where he sat even now.  His pleasure was so intense, when he let himself feel it.  “A-ah.  Jask,” Geralt panted.</p><p>“Hmm?” Jaskier asked.  “Well?”</p><p>“Fuck,” Geralt said, with deep sincerity.  “Jask—”</p><p>“I’m waiting,” Jaskier said, insolently.  “Is ‘plenty big enough’ all I’m going to get?”</p><p>Geralt flushed a little deeper.  It was all the way down his neck now, that flush.  “You—ah—mercy, Jaskier—” Jaskier grinned and pulled the cloth out of him, carefully stroking up his crease and gently over his buttocks, the undersides of his thighs.  Geralt panted, but his eyes fluttered closed again.  “You know what.  You know what you’re doing,” he said, finally.</p><p>“Mmm,” Jaskier said, knowing he was flushing up happily, warm and bright.  That was—that was as good as all Jaskier’s flowery words, coming from Geralt.  Geralt thought he <em>knew</em> what he was <em>doing</em>.  Goddess.  That was high praise.  “Don’t I just.”</p><p>“You do,” Geralt said, laughing a little.  Jaskier slid the cloth, the cleaner side of it, down over his legs, teased at the bottoms of his feet, and Geralt shivered, jumped, laughed and said, “Stop that, Jaskier, ‘s dirty.” </p><p>“No, it isn’t,” Jaskier said primly.  “You’re all clean, except where I messed you up.  I made quite certain of that, didn’t I?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, then poked his toes into Jaskier’s thigh.  “C’mon, come back,” he mumbled.  “You’re done down there.  C’mere.”</p><p>“I live to serve,” Jaskier said, and he tossed the dirty cloth onto the floor and scrambled back up the bed to Geralt’s side.  He curled into him, back against his side, and put his arms around his neck.  Geralt made a satisfied noise and curled his own arm around Jaskier, pulling him in closer, on top of his chest.  Jaskier sprawled against him with a noise of surprise, and hurried to straddle him, get his knees set so his weight wasn’t all on Geralt’s injured chest.  “Careful!” he said.  “You’re hurt, don’t make me fall on you—”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  His hand came up, tousled gently through Jaskier’s hair.  “Not like you weigh anything much.”</p><p>Jaskier huffed at him.  “That is not true,” he said, waving a finger in Geralt’s face.  “You said just the other day that I’d put on muscle, and I don’t intend to allow you to take that back at this late date, trust me, and I’ll have you know I’m nearly as tall as you are.”</p><p>“So why do you take such pains to make sure you look . . .” Geralt apparently couldn’t come up with the word he wanted, because he just gestured at Jaskier and then then mimed a limp-wristed gesture.  Jaskier laughed and smacked at his arm.</p><p>“Arse,” he said.</p><p>“Slim,” Geralt said, then, and squeezed at his waist.</p><p>“I <em>am</em> slim, thank you very much,” Jaskier said, laughing.  “Do you see any extra padding on this waist?  But, since you must know, first of all, because if I’m stronger than I look I’m stronger than people expect, and secondly, bards who look like hulks of muscle tend to mess with people’s expectations.  I prefer to appear to meet expectations—on the surface.  And besides that, I <em>like</em> extravagant things and looking pretty.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said.  “You are.”  He reached up, traced one rough finger over Jaskier’s cheek, down along his jaw.  Jaskier felt himself flush.</p><p>“I am—come again?” he said.</p><p>“No thanks,” Geralt said, and then snickered at his own joke.  “No.  You’re—pretty.”  He scowled, then, and ducked his head.  “You know that.  Don’t need me to tell you.”</p><p>Jaskier laughed, letting his head hang down so he could press a kiss into Geralt’s palm.  “I do take pains,” he said.  “But . . . thank you, love.  It’s always nice to hear such things from one’s lover, who, by the way, is so fantastically well-built and handsome it’s hard to believe he’s real—”</p><p>“Shut <em>up</em>,” Geralt said, roughly but not angrily, and shoved a little bit jokingly and a little bit not at Jaskier’s chest.</p><p>“You know I find you handsome,” Jaskier said, gently, tracing Geralt’s face the way Geralt had his own, even as Geralt looked past him and didn’t meet his eyes.  “Even if you don’t see it for yourself.  So.  In fact, I would argue that my opinion is the one that matters, since I’m the one looking at you.  I’m the one who gets to feast my eyes on all this—all this.  There’s so <em>much</em> of you, Geralt.  And I love it all.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.  He didn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, but he did let his head thump back into the pillow, and his shoulders didn’t tense too much, so that was all right, or at least, enough all right to be going on with.  Jaskier leaned in, kissed Geralt’s forehead, his eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, the tip of it, the inner rise of his cheekbone, down just above his upper lip.  Geralt sighed, tilted his head back, and Jaskier leaned over him a little more, brushed a careful kiss, open-mouthed and soft, over his lips.  Geralt leaned up into him, making a soft sound, a little breath of air, so Jaskier kissed him again, soft and lingering, brought one hand up to caress his face with gentle fingers.  He kissed him a long time, and even though Geralt was kissing him with eager want, nuzzling in against his face and lips, he didn’t let it get too deep or hot, keeping it slow and sweet and sensuous, one soft, lingering kiss over Geralt’s lips after another, until Geralt was breathing heavily and kissing back the same way, gentle and soft, his mouth opening and relaxing under his.  After a moment, Geralt slid his hands up, into Jaskier’s hair, around the back of his neck.  The touch of his big, warm, rough hands always made Jaskier shiver and sigh, and this time was no exception, as he sighed out into Geralt’s mouth.  He let his eyes flutter closed and went back to kiss him again, mouthing gently at his lower lip.  Geralt sighed into the kiss, too, and his hands rubbed warmly at Jaskier’s neck and the base of his skull.</p><p>Jaskier didn’t keep track of how long they spent kissing, again, gently caressing Geralt’s face and neck and jaw and hair with both hands as they did, but it was some while before he heard the knock on the door that suggested the food might have arrived.  He pulled back, ran his chin over Geralt’s cheek, dropped a kiss on his brow, as Geralt blinked wide dark dilated eyes and moaned, turning his head toward him, mouth wet and seeking.  “Shh, it won’t be long,” Jaskier told him, and ran his finger gently across Geralt’s wet lips.  He mouthed hungrily at it, and the next one Jaskier brought to join it, and Jaskier had to bite his lip at the feel of that wet heat against his fingertips.  “I had some food sent up for us.  I won’t be but a moment, my love.”</p><p>Geralt sighed, and he ran his hands down over Jaskier’s shoulders, over his back, bunching his shirt, like he didn’t want to let go of him, but he didn’t protest or try to stop him, and when Jaskier looked back at him, he was watching him, eyes heavy-lidded but following him on his way to the door.  Jaskier grinned and winked, blew him a kiss, and then opened the door, taking care to make certain the hallway was empty before he opened it enough to reveal that he had no trousers on.  But all was well, there was the tray left on the floor to one side and nothing else.  He picked it up and brought it back into the room, closing the door behind him, and set it down on the chair, picking up his eating knife from his pack as he went.  Geralt pushed himself up on one elbow, looking interested, so that was a good sign.  The food did smell tantalizing—it was true luxury, in that there was a chicken broth, golden with droplets of fat floating on the top like golden coins, with noodles and bits of chicken, onions, leeks, parsley, and cabbage, hot spicy sausages slathered in mustard that Jaskier could <em>smell </em>the juices from, thin potato pancakes crisped in oil filled with vegetables and meat and sour cream, rye bread with creamy butter all over it—butter, even, not even just melted meat fat, which would have been lovely enough, two mugs of ale, stewed beans with sausage and bacon and onion, pickles, smoked salted sheep’s cheese, grilled with more bacon and a lingonberry relish and slices of apple, and several slices of poppyseed rolled cake with a big heaping of rosehip preserves on the side.  Jaskier looked at the plates on the tray and smiled to himself.  “He likes me,” he said, pleased with the innkeeper’s generosity.</p><p>“No accounting for taste,” Geralt said.</p><p>“Geralt!” Jaskier said in mock offense, throwing one hand to his chest.  “A blow, straight to my heart!”</p><p>Geralt chuckled, then reached out sleepily and curled his hand around Jaskier’s wrist, tugged him gently in to sit by him on the bed.  “Nah,” he said, and ran his hand up along the back of Jaskier’s forearm, cupped his elbow gently.  “’Course he likes you.  What’s not to like?”</p><p>“That’s more like it,” Jaskier said, unable to keep back his smile, or stop the softening of his voice to pure affection, leaning in to press another soft kiss to Geralt’s lips.  “Or maybe he likes <em>you</em>,” he said, fondly, against Geralt’s mouth.  Geralt grunted disbelievingly, but Jaskier just kissed him again.  “Saving the people of this town from a siren’s deadly wiles,” he pointed out, brushing Geralt’s hair back gently with his hands.  “Deserves a fine, filling meal in reward, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Don’t know about deserve,” Geralt muttered gruffly.  Jaskier pouted at him and kissed his cheeks, fluttering little kisses over each one.  “I suppose could use something to replenish the energy I lost,” Geralt said, after a moment.  He tilted his face up, a quiet, unspoken request, and Jaskier obligingly kissed him on the mouth, gentle and slow, softly lingering over it.</p><p>“There are other reasons to eat, you know, dear heart,” he said gently, but he sat up all the same, with one last kiss, and another to Geralt’s forehead.  “How about in celebration?”</p><p>“Of what,” Geralt said, a little bitterly.  “Of me acting like a novice on his first real contract?  Perhaps almost getting you killed?”</p><p>Jaskier tsked at him and held a finger to Geralt’s lips, stilling them gently.  “We both survived,” he said.  “You’re here and warm and lovely and we’re in our bed together.  That calls for a celebration in my book.  So, now, up you get.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but he levered himself up willingly enough and wrapped both arms around Jaskier, shifting around until he was sitting behind him, his whole big warm body wrapped around Jaskier’s.  They sat like this sometimes, out on the road, nights, when Jaskier was cold.  And, sometimes, even on nights he wasn’t, but the fiction was still that Jaskier got cold more easily than Geralt.  But here, like this, there was no reason for it but fondness, no plausible deniability of the affection, and Jaskier smiled at Geralt because of that, beamed at him, really, tilting his head back and smoothing his palm along his glorious jaw, pressing gentle kisses up and down his jaw on the side close against his mouth.  Geralt smiled, and flushed a little, and ducked his head down, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s shoulder and not meeting his eyes, exactly.  Jaskier smiled even more happily, kissed his cheek, his cheekbone, his temple, squeezing his hands against Geralt’s.</p><p>“There you are,” he said softly and kissed him again, against his jaw.  Geralt made a bit of a scoffing noise, his cheeks warm, but he was smiling a little, and he didn’t push Jaskier away, just held him more tightly, squeezing him close, just a bit.  “All right, love,” Jaskier said.  “What would you like first?”</p><p>Geralt made a noncommittal noise, pressing his cheek against Jaskier’s and leaning into him in a way that seemed to strongly suggest he wanted Jaskier to be making those decisions for him, still.  Jaskier obliged him, patting him gently and reaching out to drag the chair even closer.  He leaned forward and cut one of the sausages into two pieces, speared one on the knife, and brought it back for Geralt to take a bite of it.  “Hmm,” the witcher grunted, eyes fluttering open and then closed again, as he opened his mouth and took a bite, not moving his hands from where they were curled around Jaskier’s waist.</p><p>“Is it good?” Jaskier asked, watching his face even as he took a bite of the sausage himself.  It <em>was</em> delicious—this one was a chicken and apple sausage, grilled perfectly, smoky hot still, with the sour tang of the mustard blending with the flavors of herbs, fruit, and meat.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, but this one was a pleasure noise; Jaskier could tell.  Jaskier grinned and fed him the rest of the sausage, taking a few bites himself.  Geralt ate it eagerly, licked his lips of grease and meat juices, then, instead of reaching out and pulling the food closer, starting to devour the meal himself, looked at Jaskier.  That, more than anything, told Jaskier how deep Geralt was, how profoundly he was floating.  The witcher didn’t always show it easily, but the giving himself over to Jaskier, letting him make the decisions, that was a sure sign.  So Jaskier smiled at him, reached out and caressed the side of Geralt’s face with his fingers, then picked up the bowl of soup and put it firmly in his hands.  He handed him the spoon, helped himself to a piece of bread with cheese and pickles and lingonberry relish, and took a bite of it, in example.</p><p>“Go on, Geralt,” he told him.  “Eat.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said.  He looked down at the bowl, turned the spoon over, prodded it into the soup, swirled it around the bowl a few times, almost long enough that Jaskier said something, but settled for just nudging Geralt’s arm with his elbow.  Geralt looked up at him, swallowed, looked back down, and then, as if he’d just remembered what he was supposed to do with a bowl of soup, set to it, with a real, eager hunger.  They fell into a rhythm, then—Geralt was clearly hungry, and, after all, Jaskier had seen him devour whole helpings in a matter of seconds, but he waited now, for Jaskier to give him whatever he wanted him to eat.  Jaskier found it oddly satisfying, cutting meat, putting a crispy golden potato pancake into Geralt’s hands and watching him alternate bites of it with the soup, spreading beans on bread with his knife and handing it to him next, giving him the ale to wash it down with, even as he ate himself.  It was all delicious, and he hadn’t even realized how very hungry he was until he started eating.  It often took him that way.  Now, though, he felt ravenous, and ate almost as eagerly as Geralt—though not nearly as much.</p><p>Geralt could eat and eat and eat, and the one time Jaskier had asked him about it, his shoulders had hunched and he’d looked down, as if embarrassed by it, and muttered something about his mutations.  It had taken a bit to coax Geralt back to the ravenous way he typically ate, after that, as if he were ashamed of his appetite, but Jaskier had eventually been able to assure him effectively enough of his complete lack of judgment for Geralt to begin eating again as he usually did, eagerly and quickly, as if he were being timed or judged on the quantity of sustenance he could get into his body.  Jaskier simply figured that, well, all those muscles had to be fed.  He’d seen Geralt eat meat raw, when he was desperate enough, usually after a hard, draining fight.  Which was a bit disgusting, granted, but Jaskier had never grudged him that—if Geralt needed it, he needed it.  He’d have fed him raw meat with his own hands if it gave him what he needed.</p><p>He cut more pieces of another type of sausage, ate a few with his knife even as he offered Geralt half of it.  This one was thinner and hotter, made of pork or beef or a mixture of both, redolent with spices and hot red with pepper.  It was delicious, and the heat made Jaskier’s mouth water.  Geralt grunted as he bit into it, wiped his mouth of the juices, and, a moment later, met Jaskier’s eyes, then looked down again.  “It’s good, Jask,” he muttered after a moment.</p><p>Jaskier smiled.  “I thought so, too,” he said.  “Here, try some cheese.”  He picked up a piece, held it to Geralt’s lips.  Geralt’s eyes flicked up toward his, and he blinked, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he licked his lips almost uncertainly, stared up at him with some disbelief.  Jaskier didn’t falter, just raised his eyebrows at him and continued holding the piece of cheese to Geralt’s lips.  After a moment, and definitely uncertainly, Geralt parted his lips and allowed Jaskier to feed it to him.  “There you go,” Jaskier said softly, caressing Geralt’s lower lip gently with just the edge of his thumb.  Geralt’s mouth was lovely, his lower lip fuller and broader, softer, than most seemed to notice (or so Jaskier assumed, because no one else had given voice to the paeans to Geralt’s secret vulnerabilities Jaskier composed in his head, or wrote odes referencing his lovely witcher’s extravagant beauty).  Sometimes it still surprised Jaskier that <em>Geralt</em> had seemed so surprised, the first time they had fallen into each other’s beds, so to speak, for surely he had been making a public spectacle of his admiration, his want, his hunger, his goddess-damned <em>love</em> for the witcher, for years, in every ballad and poem he wrote about him, for him.  And yet Geralt sometimes acted, even still, as if the fact that Jaskier wanted to put his hands on his cock was both baffling and just a little bit miraculous.  It made him ache, sometimes, deep behind his breastbone, that his ridiculously handsome, incredibly gorgeous lover, with his noble features and exotic coloring, found it so unbelievable that someone might find him desirable (for any reason than novelty, or his big cock, or what he could do in bed, which Geralt had seemed to think for at least three years were the reasons Jaskier was eager to share his bed, whatever Jaskier did or said about it to assure him otherwise).  “Good, isn’t it?” he asked after a moment.</p><p>Geralt’s eyes fluttered back open, and he grunted, then swallowed, and said, after a moment.  “Smoked.  From the mountains.  It’s a regional specialty in Mahakam.  It must be expensive here.”</p><p>Jaskier smiled at him.  Geralt had almost encyclopedic knowledge about the most surprising things.  He supposed it came of being old.  He always loved it when Geralt felt comfortable enough to share it with him.  “So I need to go to Mahakam if I want more?” he asked, popping a piece into his own mouth and savoring the smoky, salty taste.</p><p>“Or back to this inn,” Geralt grunted.</p><p>“Mmm,” Jaskier said and laughed, swallowed.  “You have a point there, love.  Do you like it, though?”</p><p>Geralt eyed him like it was a trick question.  “Yeah,” he grunted after a moment, and his eyes flicked away to the side, he rounded his shoulders, as if admitting he had a natural preference for something was more embarrassing than half of what they’d gotten up to that night.  “Had it before.  Smoked, keeps longer.  Once picked up a whole pack full in Mahakam, ate that for at least a year.”</p><p>“You,” Jaskier said, “need to eat more, my love.”</p><p>“I eat plenty,” Geralt muttered, even though it was an obvious lie, considering at that very moment he wasn’t quite half the weight Jaskier had seen him carry more naturally.  He frowned at Jaskier, as if he was the one being ridiculous.  “I ate other things, too.”</p><p>“I’m glad to hear it,” Jaskier said, with a chuckle.  “But the point stands, all the same, my darling.  You can’t just live off of what you hunt.  You are the one who told me that if a person ate nothing but rabbits they’d starve to death.”</p><p>“Not enough fat,” Geralt said, smiling a little.  “Glad you learned something from me, bard.”</p><p>“I’ve learned plenty,” Jaskier told him, and fed him another piece of cheese from his fingers.  “You have no idea how much I’ve learned from you, witcher.”</p><p>Geralt gave a little huff of breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.  “I’m sure that’s true,” he murmured, and turned his head, nuzzled gently at Jaskier’s fingers in a way that had his stomach curling in on itself in fluttery delight.  He stroked gently at Geralt’s cheek, and the witcher sighed happily, let his eyes slide closed.  Jaskier felt that warmth in his stomach spread all through his chest, down into his fingers and toes.  “You didn’t even know how to build a fire the right way when we first met.”</p><p>“And you saved me from a great many cold, damp, miserable nights by sharing that knowledge, thank you,” Jaskier said, forbearing to mention that scions of nobility and university students were not typically taught how to build their own fires.  He’d felt the lack of that skill most acutely when he’d first gone out on the road, on his own.  He’d managed to figure out the basics, but his fires had never lasted until he’d watched Geralt do it, and the witcher had corrected the mistakes he’d been making.</p><p>“Couldn’t have you freezing to death,” Geralt muttered against his fingertips, which was inexpressibly sweet, considering he’d acted as if his fondest wish was for Jaskier to drop off the face of the world more often than not in those days.</p><p>“That was very kind of you,” Jaskier said, and got a glare from Geralt, the witcher’s brows knotting together, for his trouble.  He laughed and fed him another piece of cheese, this time with a piece of bacon and lingonberry relish on top of a slice of apple to follow it up.  Geralt licked the bacon grease and traces of sticky relish off his fingers, the juice of the apple, and Jaskier felt the warmth tingle in his toes as well as his groin.  “Sweet,” he said, softly, and Geralt looked away again.  Jaskier caught his cheek with his fingers, brought his face back toward him.  “You are so good,” he told him, and gave him another potato pancake, rolled up around the filling, to prove his point.  Geralt’s eyes flickered up toward his, wide and dilated dark, questioning, then back down and away, but he bit into the crispy gold crust of potatoes with every sign of apparent relish.  Jaskier slid his hand back, into Geralt’s hair, stroked it back from his face, ran his fingers through it gently and over his scalp, as Geralt chewed and swallowed, leaned in and kissed his temple when he was done.  Geralt shuddered a little, under the kiss.</p><p>“Jask,” he said, and it came out rough and unsteady.  Jaskier carded his fingers through his hair again, down over the back of his neck.  Geralt shuddered again, under the touch, chewed the last of the pancake, and swallowed.  “Why do you do that?” he asked abruptly, roughly.</p><p>“What?” Jaskier asked.  “Touch your hair?”  He curled his fingers through it gently.  “Well, Geralt, because I find it beautiful, and fascinating, and I feel a very great deal of affection for you, and stroking your hair happily allows me to express it, and also because I know how you like it, my dear.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.  “Not that.  I mean, that too.”  He sighed, breathed out in a huff of air through his nose.  “I meant, why do you call me sweet, and good, and . . . darling, fuck, when you know . . . know I’m not.”</p><p>“Well, love,” Jaskier said, gently brushing a lock of hair back behind Geralt’s ear, and purposefully not dwelling on the ache that started in his chest, so as to keep his voice light and easy, “there’s an easy answer to that, but you’re not going to like it.”</p><p>Geralt grunted, his shoulders hunching, his gaze fixed on his hands, clasped together, as if he deeply regretted letting himself even ask the question.  “Why?” he asked roughly.</p><p>“Because,” Jaskier said, smiling ruefully, “it’s very simple, indeed.  I say those things, sweetling, because I think you are all those things.  I don’t have any deeper explanation than that.”  He sighed, and stroked Geralt’s hair a little more, with his palm and fingers both.  “I know you can’t see it, for yourself,” he added, more softly, more seriously, “and, love, it makes me ache, because I wish you could.  But that’s all there is to it, dear heart. I don’t have any secret reasoning, and I don’t say it to taunt you or to manipulate you.”</p><p>Geralt grunted, and his shoulders hunched forward.  His breath grated out of him on a long sigh, like the sound of steel over a whetstone.</p><p>“Come here,” Jaskier said, and he shifted over on the bed, dropped his arm around Geralt’s shoulders, and pulled him over, one hand on the side of his head, in his hair, to tug his head down onto his own shoulder.  “Does it bother you very much, dearest?  Err.  I mean.  I can stop, if you’d prefer that.”</p><p>Geralt swallowed, and he didn’t speak.  He closed his eyes, shook his head.  “Could you even stop,” he grated out after a moment, and it was raw, but it was an attempt at a joke, and Jaskier took it as something of an escape, and laughed obligingly.</p><p>“Well,” he said.  “I’d do my best, if you wanted it.”</p><p>“Nah,” Geralt grunted after a moment.  “Never wanted to change you, Jask.”</p><p>“Well, that—that’s very sweet of you, Geralt, thank you.”  Jaskier blinked, feeling suddenly rather overcome with emotion, his eyes prickling dangerously, and turned his head to press another kiss to the side of Geralt’s forehead.  He stroked his hand through his hair again.  “I’m glad it’s not too bothersome to you.”  He knew it grated on Geralt, sometimes, felt like a pumice stone rough over the raw skin of his insecurities.  But he just—he felt for him so much, and it was hard to stop his tongue from dripping with endearments.</p><p>“It’s not,” Geralt said, roughly, then sighed.  His eyes were still closed, his body resting against Jaskier’s.  It was rare to feel that, his trusting weight pressed into his side that way, letting Jaskier hold him.  Jaskier half closed his eyes, treasuring it, soaking it in.  “It just . . . makes me wonder.  That’s all I meant.”</p><p>“I hate to be obnoxious about it,” Jaskier told him, “but perhaps that means I’m doing it right.”</p><p>“Mmm?” Geralt grunted questioningly.</p><p>“That is,” Jaskier said, “as I believe you know, whether or not you believe me, I do love you, I care about you, very much, and I know you struggle to feel that way about yourself.  If it makes you wonder what I see in you, well, maybe someday you’ll find out for yourself.  If you listen to me, that is.”</p><p>“Hmmph,” Geralt said, but he was smiling, and he didn’t pull away when Jaskier ran his fingers back through his hair, off of his forehead, and pressed another kiss there.  Geralt smiled a little wider, and sat up again when Jaskier leaned into him, gently righting him, blinked his eyes open.  Jaskier smiled at him, cut another sausage in half and held half of it out to him on his knife, and Geralt obligingly took a bite.  The way he met his eyes until his teeth bit into it, the way they then fluttered shut, the sight of his teeth sinking into the meat, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, all suddenly seemed absolutely riveting to Jaskier.  He watched Geralt eat the rest of it off his knife and lick his lips free of the juices from the meat, then handed him his mug of ale.  Geralt nodded at him and took a deep swallow, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Do you mind it?” he asked after another moment, his voice still deep and rough, turning the mug around in his hands.</p><p>“Do I mind what, exactly?” Jaskier asked, eating the other half of the sausage himself.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, then, sighing, “I never.  I don’t call you . . . I mean.  Fuck.  I don’t have any sweet words for you.  I’m not . . . I don’t . . . I’m not suited to it.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t mind,” Jaskier said.  “You don’t express your feelings with your words very frequently, do you?  But that’s beside the point, since you do have sweet words for me, quite often, in fact.  Honestly, my love, do you even listen to yourself speak half the time?”</p><p>“I have cruel words for you,” Geralt muttered.</p><p>“Lark, nightingale, songbird, any of this ringing any bells?” Jaskier asked, smiling and prodding Geralt in the side with his fingers.  “Jask, Jas, Goddess knows even ‘bard,’ the way you say it these days.  I seem to recall you calling me lovely or sweet a time or two, on top of it, usually in bed, I grant you.  You know,” he took a breath, because what he was about to say was rather raw, for him, “I feel warm whenever you call me your friend, Geralt.  I treasure that more than any accolade or noble’s circlet or bardic coronet.  When you show that you trust me, or care for me—that means even more.  I don’t need sweet words from you.”  He grinned and winked at his lover, lightening the mood because he felt a bit nervous over what he’d just admitted to.  “Not that they’re not nice,” he said, “and very much appreciated.  If you feel like bestowing them.”</p><p>Geralt swallowed, his throat worked, and he took another large gulp of ale.  After a moment, his hand came over, and squeezed at Jaskier’s knee.  “You are,” he said, his voice still low and very rough.  “My friend.  You’re more than that.”</p><p>“And there you go,” Jaskier said, unsteadily, laughing to cover how wet his voice had sounded, how hoarse and rough himself, the stinging in his eyes, “undoing me again.”</p><p>“So little,” Geralt said.  He slid his hand over, to rest at Jaskier’s hip, over his shirt, and stroke there, almost hesitantly, warmth soaking through the fabric into Jaskier’s skin.  “And you melt for me.  Just like that.”  His voice was wondering, roughened and harsh, all at the same time.  “You deserve more,” he said, and dropped his hand.</p><p>“I want,” Jaskier said, and swallowed with an effort, “you.  Now.”  He picked up another piece of cheese and held it to Geralt’s lips.  “Eat.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, and ate.  He took the morsel of cheese almost delicately off Jaskier’s fingers, licking softly over the tips of them with his tongue in a way that made Jaskier feel warm all over his face and in his groin, chewed and swallowed with a delicacy that anyone who had seen the witcher eat a whole haunch of raw meat in five seconds tops and wash it down with an entire wineskin, wiping blood and wine off his mouth with the back of his arm, would hardly have believed possible.  They settled into a rhythm after that, Jaskier feeding Geralt mostly with his fingers, sometimes with his knife, and coaxing him to drink his ale in between, looping one bare leg over Geralt’s, warm and scratchy with hair under his.  When they finished with the meal, Jaskier pressed a piece of poppyseed cake on Geralt and the herbal tea he’d had steeping, taking a piece for himself with his own cup.  He ate it tilting his head against Geralt’s shoulder, reveling in the warm solidity of him, the trusting relaxation of the muscles under his weight.  It was no trouble to press a second piece of cake on Geralt, then a third, as Jaskier helped himself to a second, he noted with satisfaction.  A few more nights like this and he might able to stop counting the knobs of Geralt’s spine with his fingers in bed.  He finished with his tea, wetting his lips, licking it off them, then leaned up and kissed Geralt’s neck gently, the hinge of his jaw, the strong curve of it, in front of his ear.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, and leaned his head against Jaskier’s, turning his face to nuzzle in against him, smiling as he breathed in, his eyes just open to slits.  His wolf, more a giant lapdog like this, Jaskier thought fondly, running his hand up along the back of Geralt’s neck into his hair, scratching and stroking gently in a way that had Geralt shivering pleasurably all the way down his body into his thighs.  He kept at it, nuzzling against Geralt’s jaw and into his hair, until Geralt finished his own tea, then shifted over, careful not to put any weight against his injuries, and wrapped his arms around his neck, pressing kisses against his face and neck and shoulders.  Geralt laughed a little, and he looped his arms loosely around Jaskier in return, steadying him as he willingly lay back in the bed.  Jaskier grabbed one of the pillows, shoved it under Geralt’s head, and he smiled a little more, golden eyes fond and glowing as Jaskier leaned back down to kiss him again.  Geralt’s lips parted, went soft and welcoming under him, and Jaskier kissed him softly but eagerly in return.</p><p>“Mmm,” Jaskier agreed after a moment of kissing him, humming the sound into Geralt’s bottom lip.  “Get enough?  Satisfied?”</p><p>“More than,” Geralt said, that tiny smile still tugging at one corner of his mouth, satisfied, sated, like a well-fed tomcat.</p><p>“Good,” Jaskier breathed, smoothing his hands down Geralt’s sides and belly, well aware of how thin he still was.  It was a work in progress.  Geralt shivered under him again, but he was still smiling.</p><p>“Why all this, Jask?” he murmured.  “Why are you so intent on spoiling me like this?”</p><p>“Mmmm,” Jaskier said.  “Well.  It’s this weird thing I have, this bizarre habit of mine, wanting to make the man I love happy, you know?  And I <em>can</em> spoil you tonight, there’s a friendly innkeep and a warm bed, so I wanted to.”  He crossed his arms over Geralt’s collarbone and lay down atop him, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting prettily at him.  “Do you grudge me my bath and dinner, and taking my fill of my gorgeous, strong, beautiful lover, Geralt?”  He walked his fingers up over his collarbone and along his neck, traced them up over the strength of Geralt’s jaw.</p><p>Geralt laughed.  “No, Jask,” he said.</p><p>“Stop feeling guilty,” Jaskier told him, firmly.  “I know you feel you could have done better tonight, but am no such critic of your heroic feats, dear heart.  I’m happy just to have you in our bed, warm and safe and well-sated.  Are you, my dear?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt agreed.  He lifted one hand, traced his finger idly over Jaskier’s face, along his cheekbone, the round of his cheek, over his jaw, making him shiver now with the touch, the wondering wistfulness of it, the affection that cut into him like a knife and left him breathless.  There was a sweet relaxation in Geralt’s face that was rare to see there even at the best of times and in the witcher’s very best moods, and he was still smiling.  “You’re very good to me.”</p><p>“Then I’m also satisfied,” Jaskier said.  “And well-pleased.”  He reached up, brushed hair back off of Geralt’s face.  “You got what you wanted?” he asked, softly.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said, sounding more awkward, a bit uncomfortable, and looking down.</p><p>“There’s no shame in wanting something,” Jaskier told him, keeping his voice soft, his fingertips just as soft on Geralt’s cheek.  “Especially when I’m eager to give it to you.  And I am,” he smiled.  “Eager.  You know that.  Extremely so, as a matter of fact.”  He leaned in, pressed a kiss to Geralt’s jaw.  “Want it all, love,” he murmured.  “And I’ll give it to you, whatever I can.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.  After a moment, he lifted his hands, smoothed them down Jaskier’s back, following the shape of it under his loose shirt, then down over his arse, which he squeezed, fondling him idly until Jaskier grinned, feeling that warmth touch all through his body, the pleasure in that gentle squeeze tingling all the way down to his toes, warm and bright sparking beneath his skin, before Geralt moved his hands back up under his shirt, stroking up along his back, palms along his spine.  “I have plenty,” the witcher said, with that same hazily soft smile back on his face.  “Plenty for me right here.”</p><p>Jaskier smiled at him.  “That’s the spirit, dear heart,” he said, even though he could wish that Geralt could admit to wanting—well, more.  Not to be so ashamed of the simple desires of the vision the siren had sung him into, of wanting both Jaskier and Yennefer, of wanting the people he cared about to be safe and well.  People who thought Geralt harsh and uncaring were so very, very wrong, but it was true that he kept that caring close, inside, against his heart.  Where he was at his most vulnerable.  He wished the witcher could feel that it wasn’t shameful to want to do good, or to hear that he was good, so very good, from time to time.  “And you were so very good for me, tonight,” he added, with the sort of wicked smile that made certain Geralt would read enough into it, sexually, not to take offense at being pitied.  Not that it was pity he felt for Geralt, at all, but Geralt was always quick to jump to that conclusion and bristle and growl.  He had his pride, after all, and the last thing Jaskier wanted to do tonight was to give it another kicking.  Jaskier lifted his hands, ran them back into Geralt’s hair, cradled his head in them.  “Weren’t you?  You let me hurt you so prettily, took it so well.  So beautifully, for me, Geralt.  Came for me as many times as I wanted you to.  You would have let me have another from you, if I’d wanted it, hmm, Geralt?”</p><p>“Of course,” Geralt said, smiling just a little, not quite shy as his eyelids fluttered downward.  “No hardship, bard.  Oh no, my lover, the famous paramour, wants to make me climax until it hurts.  Whatever shall I do.”</p><p>Jaskier couldn’t keep back his snicker at that.  On the rare occasions Geralt actually let himself be funny, the jokes were invariably terribly lame or they were genuinely rather hilarious.  “Maybe I should give you another,” he said, biting lightly at Geralt’s chin.  “That sounded rather like a request.”</p><p>Geralt shivered deliciously under him, rubbed his hands along Jaskier’s back, shifted a little, took a breath.  “Maybe next time?” he asked, rather hopefully.</p><p>“Mmm,” Jaskier said.  “It would be my very great pleasure.”  He slid his hands down along Geralt’s trim waist, slender enough it was almost bony, and over his muscular inner thighs, pinching him lightly, then scratching gently with his nails.  “That’s a promise, my dear.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt hummed, and his eyes slid closed with what looked like pure pleasure.  “Thank you, Jask.  Don’t wanna be greedy.”</p><p>“You’re not, lovely,” Jaskier said fondly.  He loved overwhelming Geralt with his pleasure until he couldn’t take it anymore, until he was moaning and rocking and flinching with pleasure so acute it had turned into pain, begging Jaskier to stop, before Jaskier would give him one more go, working and tugging it out of him until Geralt’s breath was sobbing and he was drenched in sweat.  The way Geralt loved it made it—made it so incredibly good.  “I’m going to be all anticipation for that, trust me.  And we can take one more night in this inn.  Since the innkeeper likes me.  And for me to perform?”</p><p>“’Course, Jask,” Geralt said, almost drowsily.  “Couple nights, if you want to make some coin.”  He grimaced.  “I need to . . . deliver the news, and . . . .”</p><p>“Shh,” Jaskier said, and covered his lips gently with his fingers.  “I know.  Yes.  Quite.  We’ll look after all that tomorrow.  And then I’ll sing—give the poor man a bit of a wake.  But that’s for later.”  He was pleased Geralt had agreed to stay a bit longer so easily.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt agreed.  His eyes were still closed.  Jaskier ran his knuckles gently over his cheek.</p><p>“I do have a request of my own,” Jaskier said, easily so that Geralt wouldn’t tense or think it needed immediate attention.</p><p>“Hmm?” Geralt asked, cracking his eyes back open.  “Yeah, Jask?”</p><p>“I heard tell of a haunting in Oxenfurt,” he said.  “An old friend wrote me—that letter I got—and when I asked around here the rumors seem to be widespread.  Something at the most popular student tavern, near the university, and I thought it would be awfully convenient . . . .”</p><p>“Ah,” Geralt said, and let his head tip back, his eyes closed again.  “You want to go.”</p><p>“If it wouldn’t be too terribly out of our way,” Jaskier said, smiling now, drawing idle shapes on Geralt’s collarbone.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt said.  “Nothing too urgent, though?”</p><p>“Not that I heard,” Jaskier said.  “More of an annoyance.  But one they’d be willing to pay to have removed.”</p><p>“Sounds like a job,” Geralt said, idly rubbing his hand up and down Jaskier’s back again.  “And you’d like that?”</p><p>“Very much,” Jaskier said.  “Could check in with a few people—drop off some notes—get some fresh supplies, a fresh wardrobe—”</p><p>Geralt snorted and tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck.  “Like you need that,” he said, but then, “all right, bard.  Oxenfurt it is.”  He smoothed his hand out, stroked the back of Jaskier’s neck with his broad palm.</p><p>“Yes!” Jaskier crowned, grinning and wriggling now with the warming flush of his victory.  He leaned in, put both hands down on either side of Geralt’s head, and kissed him.  “Thank you!  You won’t regret it, Geralt!”  And with any luck, with first the stay here in this accommodating inn for a few more nights, and then some time longer in Oxenfurt, before they left the city Geralt would be back closer to his healthy weight, all muscle and sinew and as thick and sturdy as the broad side of a barn.</p><p>Geralt was laughing.  “I already regret it, songbird,” he said, and oofed with over the top dramatics when Jaskier slapped his biceps and went back to kissing him, deep and wet and real and eager, curling his fingers into Geralt’s hair as he kissed him.  Geralt made a noise in his throat, one of pleasure, and his fingers curled into Jaskier’s hair, too, tugging gently, as he kissed him back, kissed him eagerly.  They kissed for a long time, breathlessly, seemingly unable to pull away from each other’s mouths for longer than a few seconds, Jaskier revealing in the heat, the wet, the ardor in Geralt’s eager mouth, the gentle little grunts and gasps he gave as they kissed, the way his whole body arched up into Jaskier’s as he kissed him.  Eventually they ended up rolling onto their sides, in each other’s arms, still kissing, Geralt groaning soft into his mouth as Jaskier sucked on his bottom lip, swept his tongue into Geralt’s mouth and gave it to him to suck on, wriggled and arched up against him and swept his hands back deep into Geralt’s hair, tugging and stroking and running his hands through the strands until it waved over his forearms where his shirt had ended up pushed to his elbows.  When they finally pulled away, Geralt just blew his breath out in a soft, low sigh, his eyes closed, and pressed in against Jaskier again, until their foreheads pressed together, head tilted just a bit and nose against his cheekbone.  Jaskier ran his fingers through the witcher’s hair, pressing it back away from his face, and caught his breath, not taking his eyes off the wet glisten and the well-kissed puffiness of Geralt’s mouth, his gently parted lips, as the witcher breathed.  He just felt—so—special, so fortunate, to get to see Geralt breathe softly like this, his soft, pretty sighs, to have him keep his eyes closed and press close, his hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck, thumb rubbing gently, fingers and palm clasping as if to keep him close.  That he would have Geralt’s attention, that Geralt would have chosen him, even for a short time, in a desultory way, let alone for whatever it was they had.  Open to new lovers, or to old ones—Geralt was as madly in love with Yennefer as ever he had been, as far as Jaskier could tell—but committed.</p><p>“I do love you so, witcher,” Jaskier whispered, moving his lips softly, whispering kisses over Geralt’s eyelids.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt hummed without opening his eyes.  “My sweet Jaskier.”</p><p>“That’s right,” Jaskier murmured.  And Geralt thought he never called him sweet words.  Ha.  How wrong that was.  He had never had a taste for when his lovers called him <em>theirs</em>, not before Geralt, though many had, of course.  But when Geralt said it, it felt different, not like he would claim him, keep him forever, more as if he spoke of the person Jaskier was when he was with Geralt, and that he, that Jaskier, was special to him.  It made him feel warm and wobbly, all through, the way Geralt said it.</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt murmured.  His lips were soft against Jaskier’s cheek as he pressed closer.  “How did I ever catch your attention, Jask?  How do I keep it?”</p><p>“You’ve had my attention from the first moment I saw you,” Jaskier said, with a little smile, pressing just as close.  “And you’re not likely to lose it now, my White Wolf.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.  “Sometimes I wonder, is this—all a dream?  Will you still be here when I wake?  Curled up in my arms, or against my back, sharing my bed—how is it possible that my friend, the famous poet, wants me like this?”</p><p>“Even after all these years?” Jaskier asked softly, his heart squeezing tight, though he had known Geralt still struggled with insecurities, with wondering.</p><p>“Even after all these years,” Geralt confirmed in a soft, raspy voice.  “When I first came out of the siren’s spell, I—I feared at first that it had all been part of it.  You, wanting to—to be with me.  That my memories of your—affection were all just part of the spell.”</p><p>“Oh, Geralt, my dear one,” Jaskier murmured, his heart aching, feeling his eyes prickle all over again.  He clasped Geralt’s face with his hands, caressing his jaw.  “Lady Yennefer?”</p><p>“Easier to believe that Yen would want a ride than you would,” Geralt said with a little halfway laugh of a breath, but it was wry and sardonic in that inward turned way he had, and Jaskier knew he had probably doubted the little affections and softnesses Yennefer had shown him through the years rather than the sex, in their case.</p><p>“No wonder it hurt you so, love,” Jaskier said softly, voice raspy with the ache in his chest, in his heart.  Gods, it was so unfair—Geralt struggled enough to believe that he was cared for at the best of times.  It seemed so unfair that a spell could mess with his perceptions so, to the point where he would doubt what he had barely begun to believe he could have in the first place, all over again.</p><p>Geralt made a scoffing noise, ducked his head down, as if to dismiss the idea, but still didn’t open his eyes, and after a moment, he turned his face into Jaskier’s hand, pressed his lips in a soft kiss to his palm.</p><p>“But luckily I’m here to remind you,” Jaskier said.  He stroked Geralt’s face with his fingers, feeling the soft prickle of his stubble, traced his fingertips over his cheekbone.  “You’re not getting rid of me so easily, Geralt, I’ll have you know.”</p><p>Geralt smiled a bit, at that.  “I am lucky,” he said softly.</p><p>“You’re right, you are,” Jaskier said.  “You know how many people have lusted after this magnificence you have in your bed?”</p><p>Geralt snorted and hid his grin and his laughter in Jaskier’s shoulder.</p><p>“I’m not arguing, peacock,” he said, when he was no longer snickering.</p><p>Jaskier ran his hand through his hair, tugging gently.  “Sounded like you might be,” he said in mock-warning.</p><p>“I wouldn’t dare,” Geralt said with a smile, and then surged up, pressed a soft kiss to Jaskier’s throat.</p><p>“Mmm,” he said appreciatively, and tilted his chin up, his head back, let Geralt nuzzle close, kiss and gently graze his teeth over his throat.</p><p>“So trusting,” Geralt said, and there was a hitch in his voice, thick with emotion.  “Jask, I—thank you.  For—for tonight.  For—all of this.”</p><p>“Love,” Jaskier said, smiling just a little sadly, pushing hair out of Geralt’s eyes, back off his forehead, carefully with his fingers, “it was my very great pleasure, I assure you.”  He waited a breath, and then said, “And, honestly, Geralt, of course I trust you.  How many times have you saved my life?  How many times have I let you give me who knows what and drank it without question?  Don’t be ridiculous.  You’re the most trustworthy person I have in my life.”</p><p>“That just speaks poorly of the other people you know,” Geralt said.  His arms curved around Jaskier and brought him ever closer, so he could drag his face down his front, bury his noise and mouth against Jaskier’s chest, into his chest hair, where his shirt was open.  His breath was warm and damp against Jaskier’s skin, and Jaskier shivered pleasantly.</p><p>“Well, that may be true,” he said, still running his fingers through Geralt’s hair.  “A great many of them are flighty or devious, or both, I admit.  But it’s also simply because you are—a rock, Geralt.  You never even wanted to be there for me, at first, but you have been.  Every time I’ve needed you.  You’ve been so good to me.”</p><p>“I’ve hurt you so many times,” Geralt said, scoffing.  “I once wished for you to be silent and nearly destroyed your voice, I—”</p><p>“Ah, but you have two things going for you,” Jaskier said, loudly speaking over him.  “You cared I was hurt, and you tried, however clumsily, to patch me back together again.  And it is very, very much appreciated by this humble bard, Geralt.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, and his hand came back up, went back to petting through Jaskier’s hair, in turn.</p><p>“So,” Jaskier said.  “Doesn’t it follow that I have the same desire to patch you back together, and comfort, and please you, dear heart?”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, but this time he curled even closer around Jaskier, nuzzling his face into his skin and laying a kiss just at the hinge of his shoulder.  He ran his hand up and down Jaskier’s back, under the shirt, and Jaskier shivered, let himself melt into his hold, tangling his fingers willingly in Geralt’s hair.</p><p>“I warn you, dear witcher,” he said, a little drowsily, lulled by the satiation in his body—sex and good food and safety all at once, Geralt’s hand chasing the stiffness out of his back as he petted and rubbed at him, “if you don’t use your words I shall just assume you agree with me.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said, and he could feel his smile against his skin.</p><p>“Hmm,” Jaskier said, and snickered, running his fingers through Geralt’s hair.  “And are you feeling better, my darling?”  He struggled not to yawn.</p><p>“Much,” Geralt said, and his arms squeezed around him.  “You’ll . . . you’ll stay?  Right here?”</p><p>Jaskier mentally ran through anything else he might need to do, rolled over to reach over Geralt’s side and tugged the damp, blood and come-spattered towel out from under him, and tossed it across the room.  A maid would come in and bank the fire, the way she had last night, he thought, and then let himself yawn and lay back down into Geralt’s encircling arms.  “There is truly nowhere else I’d rather be, Geralt,” he said, and Geralt smiled and tucked his face in, against Jaskier’s neck.  Jaskier sighed, and closed his eyes, and stroked his hand through Geralt’s hair, as Geralt pulled the blankets up around them with one hand.</p><p>“Thank you, Geralt,” he said, just before he felt sleep truly reaching for him.  “For your trust.  I was demanding tonight, I know.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Geralt mumbled into his neck.  “Only how I needed it.  You gave me . . . that.  What I needed.”</p><p>“Thank you for letting me,” Jaskier mumbled.  “Thank you for asking.”</p><p>“You let me be good,” Geralt muttered.  “I needed that.”</p><p>“You were very good,” Jaskier whispered, turning his head and taking Geralt’s face in his hand, kissing his brow.  “So very good.  The best.”</p><p>“Hardly that,” Geralt said, but there was that little smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “But . . . thank you.”</p><p>“If I say you’re the best, you’re the best,” Jaskier said, pulled the pillow down, and made sure both their heads were pillowed on it, tilting his forehead back against Geralt’s.</p><p>“Well, if the master bard says so,” Geralt said, and smirked.</p><p>“He does,” Jaskier said.</p><p>“You worked hard tonight, for me,” Geralt said.  “I’ll rub the aches out of your muscles in the morning.”</p><p>“See?” Jaskier murmured, and thumbed gently at Geralt’s cheekbone.  “The best.”</p><p>“Shut up, bard,” Geralt growled, and Jaskier laughed, and smiled, and tucked Geralt close against his shoulder again.  He dozed, half awake long after Geralt was asleep and snoring against his shoulder, aware of the maid coming in and tsking under her breath at the mess of the room as she banked the fire.  Geralt grunted in his sleep at her presence, rolled over closer into Jaskier, eyes fluttering, took several deep breaths of his scent, nose and cheek traveling over his skin in a familiar pattern—scenting him, Jaskier knew by now—and then subsided back into sleep as Jaskier idly stroked at his shoulder, at his back.  After the maid left, closing the door behind her with a quiet click of the lock, Jaskier sighed, blew out a breath, and slid into sleep himself, his face pillowed in Geralt’s clean hair, his hand at the back of his witcher’s neck, and content with Geralt pliant and warm and wrapped around him, breathing deeply and relaxed, even snoring just a little.  And that, that was absolutely perfect.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Protein_poisoning">Rabbit starvation</a>, or protein poisoning, is a real thing that comes from not eating enough fat along with protein.  The smoked cheese they're eating is based on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscypek">oscypek</a>, which is traditionally made in the Tatra Mountains, which in this story became Mahakam.  It felt like something dwarves might eat, I don't know.  This fic also references the fact that chicken used to be considered a more luxurious meat than beef.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>